The Origin of MASK
by Qweb
Summary: and Jelsemium. Out of the files from 1985: The untold tale of how an accusation of theft led Matt Trakker to develop his fantastic weapons and gather his team of heroes. Full of action, puns, in-jokes and hijinks. Section 4: In "Unsound Foundation," Venom goes on a kidnap spree with a lumberjack, an architect and Scott caught in the middle.
1. Toy Tie-In 1

_This series was written by my sister and me back when the M.A.S.K. series was first on the air in 1985. We still get a kick out of it and sometimes quote our favorite lines, so I'm pulling it out of the archive to post for the first time. The Origin of MASK is full of action, humor, puns and my obsessive need to reconcile the jobs characters had on the show with the bios on the toy boxes. We alternated chapters in our writing, but added bits and pieces to each other's stories, so it's hard to remember who did what. (The person listed first on the byline did the majority of that chapter.) Originally, this was written for print with seven chapters of 20-plus pages (13,000 words!) each. That seems excessive for reading on screen, so I will break them up into Toy Tie-In1, Toy Tie-In2 and Toy Tie-In3 before we get to what was the original second chapter, The Buddy System.  
Now, for the first time on the Web:_

**The Origin of MASK**

**Chapter 1: A Potential Toy Tie-In**

_**By Qweb and/or Jelsemium**_

Calm, unflappable Bruce Sato was almost incoherent with rage as he stormed into the main office of Trakker Toys, Inc., (a wholly owned subsidiary of Trakker Enterprises).

Polite, respectful Bruce Sato shoved past the diminutive secretary and burst into the office of Matt Trakker, founder, president and chief stockholder of Trakker Toys and Trakker Enterprises, not to mention the Trakker Foundation, a worldwide, non-profit organization dedicated to the preservation of life, art and culture in all their forms.

Serene, reasonable Bruce Sato threw open the door, sending it flying backwards toward a collision with Trakker's son, Scott, quietly playing with Trakker Toys' latest development. Fortunately, Scott's robot companion, T-Bob, served as a doorstop, keeping the youngster from harm. The impact of door and robot caused a deafening hollow clang, which made Matt Trakker jump, but Sato didn't even look around.

In his left fist was a crushed wad of papers. He occupied his other hand by slamming the palm down on Matt's desk with a resounding smack. The blond executive reared back in shock at the entrance of this human tsunami.

Honest, honorable Bruce Sato looked the well-known, well-respected philanthropist in the eye.

"You are a thief, Matt Trakker," he said venomously. "And I intend to prove it!"

The unexpected accusation struck Matt speechless, but not Scott. The brown-haired boy leaped to his feet, letting his robot friend fall back to the floor with a second crash.

"You can't talk to my dad like that! He's no thief!"

Until that moment, Bruce Sato had been entirely unaware of the boy's presence. When he looked down into Scott's angry, blue-gray eyes, the Japanese inventor deflated so suddenly Matt was afraid he'd collapse to the floor like a punctured balloon. Trakker jumped around the desk to grab the smaller man's arm in support; but Bruce just stood there, looking at the furious youngster.

Though born in America, Bruce Sato came from a very Japanese household, in most respects, at any rate. It showed in the faint, musical accent, which colored his colloquial English. And it showed in his attitude toward family, particularly toward the inviolate respect to be maintained between father and son. According to his traditions, one did not shame a man before his son, not even if the man deserved it. And here, in this office, facing this boy's angry eyes, Bruce was no longer as certain of his accusations as he had been. He felt Matt's comforting grip on his arm and transferred his gaze from the boy to the man where he found the same honest eyes. There was no anger in Matt's face, however, just concern for his unexpected guest. All the doubts Bruce had felt on making his discovery returned with full force. Looking at him, it seemed impossible that this famous benefactor could be a thief.

For the first time in his life, the self-confident, self-possessed Bruce Sato felt totally at sea.

Matt saw his uncertainty and smiled in reassurance.

"There seems to be some sort of misunderstanding here," he said mildly. "I think we'd better discuss it."

"You oughta kick him out, Dad!"

"That's no way to talk to a guest, Scott," Matt said.

"Dad!" The boy was outraged that his father wasn't outraged.

"Scott." There was iron in the second warning.

"Yes, sir," the boy said mulishly. Scott didn't say another word, but he kept a glowering eye on the intruder.

"I'm sorry, Matt," said the secretary from the doorway, "but he just … zoomed past me!"

"That's all right, Sharon," Matt said. "I think we'll dispense with the appointment formalities in this case. I'm dying to find out what I stole."

Bruce winced at the joke.

Matt apologized, realizing this was no humorous matter to the other man. He guided Bruce to a small table and sent Sharon for refreshments. Bruce had recovered his equilibrium by the time the woman returned with two mugs of steaming tea and a cold Coke for Scott.

"I must apologize for my behavior earlier," Bruce said to the woman. "I was … upset."

"And the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground," Sharon said. "Don't worry about it. I've been walked on by bigger men than you."

She shut the door behind her and went back to her desk. She eyed the inoffensive outer door like a hungry hawk. The next intruder who wanted to get past her had better have a flamethrower, she thought. Or an appointment, she amended.

In the inner office, Bruce turned to Scott. "And I must apologize to you, also. I hope my abrupt entrance did not harm you, or your … friend."

He looked at T-Bob swaying dizzily around the room.

"No, no. Don't mind me. I'm fine," the robot said. "At least, I will be when the room stops spinning."

Actually, Bruce saw that it was one of T-Bob's eyes that was spinning, its relays damaged in the collision with the door.

"Please, allow me to repair that," Bruce said quickly, glad to do this one small thing make amends.

On his knees by the robot, he used a pocket screwdriver to make a few swift adjustments to the eye component. The spinning eye righted itself and focused on the man.

"You look much better now that you've gotten off the Ferris wheel," T-Bob commented.

Matt was impressed. T-Bob had been a basement experiment that, through some quirk, had proven to have intelligence; though it was, perhaps appropriately, a quirky sort of intelligence. He made a good companion for the boy, though, since his cowardly nature acted as an anchor to Scott's enthusiastic spirit of adventure. No matter how useful T-Bob was, however; Matt had found, somewhat to his relief, that the robot was an unrepeatable, one-of-a-kind creation.

The inventor in Matt admired the way Bruce deftly repaired the unfamiliar machine. The businessman in him was getting more and more curious as to what this whole matter was about. When he said so, Bruce picked up the toy Scott had left on the floor, Trakker Toys latest release.

"This is what it's about," Bruce said sadly.

"Why don't we start at the beginning," Matt said. "Like with your name."

Bruce looked at Matt in surprise. His tidal wave entrance seemed especially ludicrous somehow, because Trakker didn't know who he was. The Japanese inventor grinned suddenly and looked younger for it, even younger than his true 27 years. He put his full hands together and bowed briefly in comic parody of the oriental manservant in the occidental movies.

"So sorry, honorable sir," he said. "My name is Bruce Sato."

Matt's eyebrows rose up to his blond hairline. "Bruce Sato of Sato Family Toymakers?"

"That's me."

Matt looked Bruce over with new interest. This explained the stranger's expertise in repairing T-Bob, Matt thought.

The Sato family had been toymakers in Japan for generations. In the late 1950s, Bruce's father had made a short visit to the United States to check on possible American markets. His visit had lengthened into a lifetime stay when he met and married a Japanese-American girl, thus founding a U.S. branch of the family firm. In recent years, they had made a stupendous hit with the "Converta-Car" line of toys that transformed from robots to vehicles to a number of bizarre items. Most recently, they had been licensing, and in many cases selling outright, the rights to a series of electronic and computer-operated toys too complex and expensive for the small firm to manufacture. Trakker Toys was among the companies who had purchased the rights to some of the ingenious devices, which were the brainchildren of the Sato's top designer — one Bruce Sato by name.

Bruce set Scott's toy on the table and touched the remote control. The battery operated robot, called "Buck," transformed from a walking mechanical man to a stiff-legged, bounding horse, then to a jeep speeding along on four independently driven wheels. Bruce raced the small car around the table, deftly weaving it in and out of the obstructing mugs. The toy was not yet on the market. It was only due for its grand unveiling at a trade fair next month. Yet Sato handled the controls as if he'd designed them.

Matt thought of the money spent tooling up the factory to manufacture Buck. He thought of the ad campaign already planned and purchased. 'Ouch,' he thought.

Without taking his sad eyes off the small car, Bruce said, "I worked on this project for more than a year, off and on, between others. I wanted to make a Converta-Car that would change shape by remote control, that would move by itself in all its forms. I had just completed my first prototype four months ago …"

"And somebody stole it?" Scott asked.

The boy had drawn the same conclusion as his father from Bruce's handling of the controls; but Bruce's answer surprised both Trakkers.

"No, I never suspected a robbery until I opened the trade journal last night and saw your ad for my toy."

Matt wasn't ready to deal with that yet. He wanted to hear the whole story first.

"What did happen four months ago?" he asked to steer Bruce back on track.

"My laboratory burned to the ground. Nothing left. My prototype was a lump of melted plastic and metal. Even the designs in the safe were turned to ashes by the heat. Or so I thought. When the investigator was sure I had lost more than I could have gained, he confided in me that he'd never seen a fire like it. It was too hot, for one thing, as if it had been a chemical warehouse, not a toyshop. There also seemed to be no particular point of origin. It seemed as if the entire wall had burst into flames instantaneously. He said the only similar effect he'd seen had been caused by a flamethrower. But that didn't check out either. They finally decided that faulty wiring had set the wall on fire and some freak combination of fumes from the plastics or the synthetic fabrics in the curtains or carpet had caused the intense heat. With the insurance settlement I started to work again in a new office."

He pointed to the papers, which, in his fury, he had squeezed into a shapeless blob.

"All I had left were some of the preliminary drawings which had been at my home instead of the lab. I started to redo a year's work."

Matt spread out the papers to study them. "Then you saw our announcement in the trade paper," he said.

Bruce looked at him in bewilderment.

"I recognized Buck immediately, of course. It was my toy. Hardly changed at all. But I couldn't believe you could be so blatant about such a theft. And I didn't want to believe you could be involved."

Matt was taken aback by his emphasis.

"You see," Bruce said almost shyly. "You have been a role model for me. You took over your family's fortune and made it grow; yet your name is synonymous with honesty, fair dealing, good value, with … truth! You are a man of honor in a business world which too often spits on honor as being unprofitable. I saw you speak once at the San Francisco Chamber of Commerce and I've tried to model myself on your words. 'It's been said only one party can profit in a business deal; but that's bunk. If the buyer gets what he wants at a fair price and the seller gets rid of what he has at a reasonable profit, then both sides benefit. And the merchant benefits most of all, because the customer will return again and again. It's simply the Golden Rule, gentlemen. If you'll permit a paraphrase: Sell unto others as you would have them sell unto you.'"

Matt looked distinctly embarrassed to have his words quoted back at him.

Bruce said, "When I thought you had stolen from me, I felt cheated. I had admired you and then … "

"Yes, a fallen idol is worse than none at all," Matt mused.

Bruce explained that he jumped right into his car and drove all night to Boulder Hill, Nevada. He got more and more angry the more he thought about it until he burst into Trakker's office like a madman.

"But when the axe head flies off the handle, it cuts only the woodsman's foot," Bruce said sadly.

Scott said, "Huh?"

"I think you're being too hard on yourself," Matt said.

Bruce was surprised by Matt's comment. He was a lot more used to "Huh?"

It was a Sato family failing to quote obscure aphorisms at odd, sometimes inopportune, times. Then they usually had to translate. Matt was the first outsider Bruce could recall who hadn't needed a translator to realize Bruce was feeling ashamed of "flying off the handle."

Matt continued thoughtfully, "Anyone would be upset to see a year's work stolen."

Bruce sat up straight. That almost sounded like an admission of guilt. But, more and more, Bruce was sure that was impossible.

"I know we didn't develop Buck," Matt said. "But I don't know much about where we got him. I was out of town four months ago."

"Of course!" Bruce exclaimed. "The good will tour! I should have remembered."

"I think you had other things on your mind at the time," Matt said sympathetically.

But the extensive press coverage of the good will tour had made an impression on Bruce, even through his preoccupation with his fire loss. Bruce looked more cheerful. Even though nothing had been settled, at least he could believe his idol's feet were not clay after all.

Matt called his plant supervisor on the intercom and asked him to bring all the specs on Buck to the office. Bill Ward trundled into the office with a worried look on his face.

"Something wrong, Matt?" he asked, then he noticed the visitor. His eyes widened.

"Mr. Sato, isn't it?" he said, extending his hand. "We met at that convention in Los Angeles."

"Yes, I remember," Bruce said, as he shook hands.

Ward frowned at his boss. "Is there something wrong?"

Matt explained Bruce's story. Ward sank slowly into a chair. He looked pained and worried, but not surprised.

"I knew there was something funny about that guy," he sighed. "But I checked him out, Matt. Honest!"

"Tell me about it."

"The fella who brought Buck in called himself Sylvester. I got excited when I first saw the toy. I knew it was going to be a winner — the hottest thing out this year." Ward winced at his choice of words. Maybe the toy was "hot." "I didn't like Sylvester, though. Something dishonest about him. I wondered if the toy might have been stolen. See, he wanted full payment, no royalty deals. Well, the design reminded me of Sato toys, but Sylvester had said he'd worked for them, which could have explained any similarity in style. But I still didn't trust him; so I called your company," Ward said to Bruce. "I spoke to a lady there. She verified Sylvester's story. Said he'd left the company more than a year ago to work as an independent. She said he had the personality of a rat, but he did good work. So I bought the designs, for $100,000. I half expected him to ask for cash, but he said he'd take a check. 'A Trakker check's as good as gold, better for some things,' is what he said."

Bruce had begun shaking his head halfway through Ward's recital, and he was still shaking it in bewilderment.

"What did this man look like, Bill?" Matt asked.

"Shaggy, greasy black hair. Thin face with a thick mustache. Real pale like someone who hates the outdoors. Flat nasal voice. Wore dark glasses all the time so I never saw his eyes."

Bruce was still shaking his head.

"How about the woman's voice, anything distinctive?" Matt asked.

"It was one of those deep voices, sounded real sexy on the phone; But she was all business. Very curt."

Bruce sat up straight at that. His face twisted in bitter lines.

"Familiar?" Matt asked.

"We had a receptionist who spoke like that. Not a nice woman, I thought, but very efficient. She wore her hair funny. It was long and very red, except for her bangs right in front, which were very black. Rather Punk." Bruce smiled ruefully, "She wasn't with us long. She said she didn't like to stay around people who set their buildings on fire. She said she didn't realize toy-making was such a dangerous business."

The three men sat in silence, struggling with the realization that they'd been swindled.

Finally Ward cleared his throat. "I'd sure hate to lose Buck, Matt," he said, then he turned to Bruce. "You realize you can't prove any of this. You could have made these drawings after seeing our ad."

"Yes," Bruce said softly. "I realize I cannot get Buck back. I no longer have any desire to fight for it. Yet, I have regained something, my faith in the honesty of one man." Bruce bowed to Matt, not a comic bow, this time, but a genuine expression of respect. "After all, money is only green paper; but a new friend is a treasure."

Bruce touched the small horse on its head in farewell, then walked out. His back was ramrod stiff, but his shoulders slumped just a little. Matt watched him go with hooded eyes. Ward watched him go with open-mouthed surprise.

"Was it something I said?"

Matt smiled, though the expression didn't touch his eyes. "I think he thought you were planning to take him to court and he just doesn't have the heart for it. Buck's been an awful disappointment for him."

"Court! I was just getting ready to haggle a little. It's obvious that toy is his design," Ward said.

"I know, Bill," Matt said with a distant look in his eye. "But he wasn't in the mood to haggle. Come to think of it, neither am I."

Ward could take a hint. He gathered up his papers and slipped out.

"Son, think you two could find somewhere else to play?" Matt said with deceptive mildness.

"Sure, Dad," Scott said, tugging the tottering robot from the room. Scott knew that look.

"Someone's gonna get it now," he told T-Bob.

* * *

Two weeks later, Bruce Sato received a check in the mail along with a folder of documents which made his almond eyes open wide and set him on another all night drive to Nevada.

He entered Trakker's office at a much more decorous pace, but Sharon, who was in deep conference with Ward, gave the inventor as dirty a look as if he'd torn the door off its hinges.

"This is all your fault," she said.

"Huh?" Bruce was taken aback entirely. "What's wrong?"

"What isn't!" Ward said distractedly. "First I've got to retool all my dies to put a Sato toys credit on Buck. Then I've got to make sure your name gets in all our advertising. Now Matt's locked himself in the computer room and won't let anyone in! I need that computer. I tell you, Sharon, the boss has gone really crazy. And I bet we don't even make a profit on it this time!"

"Can I see him?" Bruce broke in.

"Sure. Why not!" Ward said wildly. "You started this mess. You and your stolen toys!"

He directed Bruce to the computer room. "Locked himself in" turned out to be a slight exaggeration. The door opened at the Asian inventor's touch. But he didn't see Matt when he entered the dimly lit room. Instead he found Scott and T-Bob, talking to a tall man in his forties.

The stranger had a bushy red beard and mustache, with sideburns that squared off with the tops of his ears. The quantity of hair on his face made up for the lack of it on his head, for he was completely bald. Age had thickened him a bit around the middle, but he still had powerful arms and carried himself with an erect stance that bespoke years in the military.

"Can't you do something, Alex?" Scott said tearfully. "He won't eat. He won't talk to anybody. He hasn't come home for days!"

"I'm starting to feel like an orphan robot," T-Bob contributed.

"There, there, lad," the man said to Scott in an educated British accent. "He'll pull through. He has before, you know."

"But he's never been this bad before!" the boy wailed.

Bruce wondered in dismay if his accusations had driven Trakker to a nervous breakdown, or something worse. As he hesitated, thinking he'd better leave, Alex noticed him for the first time.

"Here! Who are you?" Alex demanded.

"That's Mr. Sato, Alex, the one I told you about," Scott said with a sniffle.

"Oh, so you're the one responsible for this," the Brit said. "Come to view your handiwork, have you?"

"Please, would somebody tell me what's going on here?" Bruce said.

Alex stepped aside drawing Scott with him, so Bruce could see Matt slumped across the computer terminal, snoring gently. With a week-old stubble of blond beard on his face, he looked like a drunk sleeping off a binge, but it was discarded paper coffee cups that littered the room, not empty gin bottles.

"What's happened?" Bruce asked.

Alex looked at the sleeping millionaire fondly. "He's a genius, you know," he said as if it was common knowledge.

Bruce nodded. It was common knowledge.

"Well," Alex continued. "He goes on these tears every once in awhile. Gets his teeth into some problem and worries at it day and night until he gets the solution. We're all used to it. But he's never been quite this bad before."

"He even missed my Little League game," Scott said.

"Yes. No matter how busy Matt is, he never neglects the boy," Alex said, squeezing Scott's shoulder in reassurance. "Whatever this is, it's special, Mr. Sato."

"May I ask who you are?"

The Briton chuckled. "Sorry. Sector's the name, Alex Sector. Scott called me when he got frightened and I flew right up. He thought I might have some authority over Matt, since I've known him since he was Scott's age. And even if Matt wouldn't listen to me, I know enough about computers to pull the plug and force him to stop. But when we got here, we found he'd stopped of his own accord."

Alex chewed his lower lip. Then continued in a low voice. "Have you ever seen one of those science fiction stories where they give a computer an impossible problem to solve — like what's the full value of pi — and it burns itself out trying to come up with an answer? I've often wondered what would happen to Matt if he got hooked on one of those insoluble problems."

He and Bruce exchanged worried frowns.

"There's no such thing as an insoluble problem, Alex," Matt said sleepily.

Trakker sat up, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. Obviously stiff and sore, Matt stretched with bone cracking vigor. With his rumpled clothes and tousled hair, he looked like something the cat refused to touch. But his eyes were alight with triumph.

"Dad!" Scott threw himself in his father's arms with a shriek, as if he hadn't seen him for weeks. And, truth to tell, Trakker in one of his moods wasn't the usual Matt Trakker. Matt hugged his son hard enough to make his ribs creak, then set the 10-year-old on his lap. He turned to Alex.

"Speaking of problems, what are you doing here?"

"Your bizarre behavior frightened your son half out of his wits. Naturally he called me to talk some sense into you," Alex said drily.

Matt hugged his boy again apology.

"I'm glad you're here anyway," Matt said. "I probably would have called you myself. I finished inputting the data, but I conked out before I could run the program. I think we're going to get some surprising results. Check it out for me, would you."

"Glad to oblige, chap; but shouldn't you see what your other guest wants first?"

Alex gestured toward Bruce standing motionless, unnoticed and perplexed in a corner. Matt's eyes, which already blazed in excitement, seemed to light up further with pleasure.

"Bruce!" He leaped up to take the inventor's hand and drag him to the group by the computer. "Good! It's only right you should be here. But how did you know?"

"I still don't know anything," Bruce sighed. "I came to return this." He pulled out the check Matt had sent him. "It's too much. Much too much," Bruce said. "It's twice what you paid Sylvester! Plus 50 percent of the profits. I would never have gotten so much if I'd sold the toy in the usual fashion."

"It's a fair price," Matt said mildly.

"Fair! It's … extravagant!"

Matt smiled. "Consider it a bribe, then. I want to steal you away from your family business. I want you to come to Boulder Hill and work for me. You see, I think I'm going to need your inventive little mind for this new project of mine. Or don't you want … revenge?"

"Then you've tracked them down?" Bruce said eagerly.

"They don't call me Trakker, for nothing," Matt said. "I've identified them, all right, Bruce. And you'll never guess what I found."

"Matt!" Alex had been looking over Matt's papers. Now he turned to the younger man in outrage. Matt looked back blandly. "Where did you get this information!" the Brit demanded. "There are records here from the FBI, Scotland Yard, the Surete!"

"I just did what my Uncle Alex taught me," Matt said.

"I most certainly never taught you to break into other people's computer systems! Matt, you must have broken laws in half the civilized countries of the world to get this information!"

Matt was unrepentant. "But Alex, look what I found out!"

He started the program. The computer sorted the information, then began to present it in coherent form. The exasperated lines around Alex's eyes began to smooth out as he became caught up in the story. Scott and Bruce were fascinated from the start.

* * *

The computer began by identifying the woman who had worked in Bruce's office — Vanessa Warfield. Bruce nodded his head violently as her picture appeared.

"That red and black hair was a dead giveaway," Matt confided, as the computer listed the woman's stupefying criminal history, which included everything from extortion to attempted murder. "Then I decided to check her known associates for Mr. Sylvester."

The computer obligingly put the man's picture on the screen.

"Funny enough, his name really is Sylvester, though everyone just calls him 'Sly,' Sly Rax."

"He looks it, too. Doesn't he," Alex said. "Slimy blighter."

Rax's criminal credentials were every bit as impressive as Vanessa's.

"Then the computer and I went after anyone who hung out with the pair of them. Having two names made it a lot easier," Matt said. "I got a select list of names. A regular Who's Who of the criminal profession. Here's one that should interest you Bruce."

Matt paused the computer at a picture of a wide-faced, stupid looking man who wore a black beret with a band that looped down over one eye like a pirate's eye patch.

"Should I know him?" Bruce asked.

"I'd wonder at your choice of friends if you did. His name is Cliff Dagger. More muscle than brains. He can hardly count to 20 without looking at his toes, but he's surprisingly good with electronics and explosives."

"So?" Bruce prompted.

"Ah! But his first love is arson," Matt said.

Bruce frowned at the screen as if memorizing every line of the unlovely face, only to find it replaced by a homely, mousy little guy who looked as if he'd be afraid to wipe a bug off his thick, horn-rimmed spectacles.

"That's a major criminal?" Alex scoffed.

"Nash Gorey, meek, inoffensive — white collar crimes for the most part. Talented man with a computer — but push him too far and he can be deadly, in a hysterical sort of way," Matt said.

The computer went on to list two others who looked like punks, in both the old and new meanings of the word. Floyd Malloy, a wiry, weaselly fellow, gelled his long blond hair so that it stood straight up on his head. Bruno Sheppard, a big muscleman, wore his red hair in a close-cropped Mohawk.

"But I've saved the best for last," Matt said.

The picture that came up on the screen showed a man older than any of the others. His once brown hair and mustache were mostly gray and his eyes were the same steely color. His hair was cut short on his bullet shaped head. He might have been a pleasant uncle type, except for the cold, calculating look about his eyes and the permanent snarl lines etched around his mouth. This was an uncle who'd sell his nieces and nephews just to save money on the food bill.

Scott flinched from the avaricious gleam in the man's eye. Even Alex was fascinated by the power that emanated from a mere photograph. It was obvious to everyone that this man in his military style uniform was the leader of the motley gang of high tech crooks.

"Who is that," Alex breathed.

"That," Matt said as proudly as if the man was a new invention, "is Miles Mayhem."

The name sent a shiver down Bruce's spine.

But Alex had recovered his very British equanimity. "Oh, surely not," he scoffed. "No one could be named 'Miles Mayhem.' Really!"

"You're probably right, Alex," Matt confessed. "There's no birth record or legal name change under that name in any computer I've been able to access. Not even in a translation from another language. But there's also no record of this man under any other name."

"Mayhem's his name and Mayhem's his business, eh?" Alex said.

"Exactly."

"And just who are these people, Matthew?" Alex asked.

"They're the people who took me for a $100,000 ride. They're the people who burned Bruce's workshop to the ground. And, I think, they're the Museum Raiders."

"WHAT!" Even T-Bob joined in the concerted shout of astonishment.

"Dad, you mean these are the guys with those awesome masks?" Scott said.

"Surely you can't be serious, lad," Alex said. "The police have been trying to identify the museum raiders for months and you claim to have done it in two weeks?"

"But, Alex, no one's had all the information I had. I dug up bits and pieces on Vanessa and her friends from hundreds of crimes committed all over the world. Some of them almost petty seeming crimes that no one would report to Interpol or even a national police organization. But all the pieces fit. These are the people who have used high tech equipment, including those 'awesome masks,' to attack six museums in the last six months. They've made headlines for those daring, ruthless attacks; but according to my information, they've also committed a variety of other crimes. Up 'til now, no one has realized it's the same group. The papers call them the Museum Raiders; but the note they sent when they ransomed the Leaning Tower back to Pisa was signed: 'Venom'."

The long silence that followed Matt's pronouncement was finally broken by Alex, "Venom. Yes, that fits the blighters, from all I've heard."

"The boa constrictor has no fangs, but it kills anyway," Bruce murmured.

Alex shot him a blank look.

"You're right, Bruce," Matt said. "It doesn't matter what they call themselves. What matters is, they've got to be stopped. Just look at this."

Using the computer, Matt ran through each of the Venom agents, teaming them up with the "awesome" masks they wore and the equally awesome vehicles they drove. Just as the masks did more than disguise their identities, the vehicles did more than provide transportation. Both served as weapons — very powerful, high tech weapons.

* * *

Vanessa wore a dark green mask that shot out a "Whip" made of pure energy which she could use to strike or grab. She seemed to prefer to drive a purple sports car which could extend wings and turn into a jet. Reports indicated that the car was called "Manta."

Rax rode a black motorcycle with a sidecar that could be launched to form a submarine. Victims had heard him refer to it as "Piranha." His "Stiletto" mask extended clear down to his chest and fired deadly metal spikes from the region over where his heart ought to be.

Dagger's mask was called "Torch." (Bruce hissed under his breath as he watched closed circuit films of it firing a blast of flame from its crown.) Dagger drove a coal black Bronco which converted to an armored car with a wicked looking gun turret. There were guns hidden behind its front grill as well.

Gorey had a mask called either "Powerhouse" or "Sampson" (reports varied) which allowed him to perform great feats of strength. The huge "Outlaw" oil tanker he drove, apparently some sort of Venom command center, was armed to its hubcaps and had a monstrous cannon along its back.

Bruno, whose "Magna-Beam" mask emitted magnetic waves, preferred an orange car called "Scorpion" which flattened down into a treaded tank with a clawlike crane for a tail.

Malloy drove a red motorcycle called "Vampire," which could change into a high- flying, one-man jet. Malloy's mask, known as "Buckshot," fired a vicious stream of ball bearings.

Mayhem's "Viper" mask fired a corrosive, poisonous acid. His preferred vehicle was an admittedly nifty looking dark blue helicopter that could change into a streamlined jet. The aircraft's apt name was "Switchblade."

* * *

Matt shut off the computer. "There you have it gentlemen — and robot. There isn't a police force on this planet who knows as much as you do about Venom."

Alex looked at Matt with sharp suspicion, "Just what do you plan on doing with this material now that you've collected it.

"I plan to use it, of course," Matt said softly.

* * *

**In the next episode:  
More toys, more maxims  
and the anti-Venom program picks up speed  
when they go looking for an overgrown Boy Scout**


	2. Toy Tie-In 2

_A/N: Thanks to Zarius and Darster, our two faithful reviewers._

**The Origin of MASK**

**Chapter 2: A Potential Toy Tie-In, Part 2**

_**By Qweb and/or Jelsemium**_

_Matt shut off the computer. "There you have it gentlemen — and robot. There isn't a police force on this planet who knows as much as you do about Venom."_

_Alex looked at Matt with sharp suspicion, "Just what do you plan on doing with this material now that you've collected it._

"_I plan to use it, of course," Matt said softly._

Scott and Bruce sat up looking very interested. But Alex, older and wiser in the wicked ways of the world, felt suddenly sickly afraid for this young man he thought of almost as a son.

"You can't be serious," he almost whispered.

Matt looked his father's old friend straight in the eye. There was no defiance in his gaze, just calm, cold determination. "I am, Alex."

"But …"

"No buts. Do you know what they did with the $100,000 check they got from my company? They deposited it a bank and used it as collateral on a loan for five times that amount. After all," Matt said bitterly, "anyone who does business with Matt Trakker must be a good credit risk. They used my name to defraud that bank of half a million dollars!"

Matt was trembling with fury as he thought about it. Alex knew that, in a generally smudged world, Matt had kept his name free of dirt. Trakker had an old fashioned sense of honor in which his good name meant everything. The Brit thought of Othello, "He who steals my purse, steals trash. But he that filches from me my good name, robs me of that which not enriches him and makes me very poor indeed." He knew Matt would not been nearly so angry if Venom had just stolen the money.

"Can't you turn your information over to the authorities," Alex said desperately.

"To whom, Alex? There's no police force in the world equipped to handle a car that turns into a tank, a motorcycle that can fly or a mask that gives its wearer the strength of ten."

"You're not equipped to handle it either, old chap," Alex said softly.

"Not now, maybe. But I can be," Matt said. "I've got the money and the know how to design and build masks and vehicles to counter theirs. And I have access to labs where I can obtain some of the most advanced weaponry available, though I don't know that some of my friends consider their gadgets 'weapons'. I already have a computer system that can keep track of Venom's movements anywhere in the world. I can fight them, Alex, like nobody else can."

"You can't do it alone."

"No," Matt said softly. "I could use your help. Yours and Bruce's and more."

"Is this the special project you were talking about?" Bruce asked. At Matt's nod, Bruce thought briefly of his charbroiled lab, and told Matt to count him in. Matt was still locked in a stare-down with Alex.

"What about it, Alex? You were a commando once, and you practically invented modern computers. I could use you."

"That was more years ago than I care to remember, Matthew. I'm not even in the computer business any more. I run a bloody pet shop, remember!"

"And you're so bored you milk poisonous snakes just for the heck of it, even when no one plans to make anti-venom."

Matt smiled at his old friend. He knew Alex too well, knew he had a craving for action that an occasional golf game simply couldn't satisfy. Alex eyed the younger man like a dieting chocoholic offered a hot fudge sundae. He knew he shouldn't, but he wanted it so bad.

"If we go after Venom," Bruce said softly, "We could use a specialist in snakes."

The Brit's mouth twisted in a wry grin as he realized he was caught. "I suppose someone has to look after you youngsters," he said drily.

Scott cheered in excitement. "Yayy! We're going after Venom!"

"Not you, young man," Matt and Alex said in unison.

"That goes double for me," T-Bob said with a shudder. "I want to stay far away from anyone called Mayhem!"

"Good," Matt said. "And keep Scott with you when you do."

"Awww, Dad! I miss all the fun!"

Matt and Alex exchanged amused glances.

"He's just like his father," the bald man said. "Stubborn, determined and bound to get into mischief."

"This isn't a game we're playing, Scott. This is deadly serious business," Matt said sternly.

"Can't I at least help?"

"We'll talk about it later."

"Look out Venom, here we come!" cried the irrepressible youngster.

Bruce chuckled. "The thief who hides his loot in a snow bank forgets that summer must come."

"What was that all about?" Alex asked.

"I mean," Bruce translated for himself, "that Miles Mayhem didn't know what he was getting into when he messed with Matt Trakker."

"I'll say 'Amen' to that!" Alex said fervently.

When Alex had leaped to answer Scott's mayday, he hadn't expected to be away for any length of time. Realizing this "anti-Venom" program was going to take awhile to get off the ground, the Brit flew back to Florida to make long-term arrangements for someone to take care of his animals and run his Pet Emporium.

Alex knew that Bruce Sato planned to pack up lock, stock and baggage and move to Boulder Hill to set up shop as an independent toy designer. Alex had imagined that the toy designing would take a backseat to more serious designing for a while. So, when he returned to the newly completed computer room in the Trakker mansion — Ward needed the one at work — Alex was surprised to find Bruce and Matt bending over a table full of miniature vehicles.

"I thought we were going into the crime fighting business, chaps. What's with the toys?"

Matt laughed. "They're not exactly toys, Alex," he said. "Call them … prototypes."

"We thought that since this project began with a toy tie-in, we might as well continue in that vein," Bruce said.

Matt squinted down at the toys and picked up a big rig truck cab.

"Bruce intended these as Converta-Cars; but take out the robot mode, add some real armament and we think they might just serve our purpose," Matt said.

Bruce indicated the small truck saying, "This will be our rolling command center. Your headquarters, Alex, with a computer room linked by satellite to the main one here. The rear section can separate to form a second vehicle."

Bruce tugged at the back of the truck cab, where the trailer would normally be attached, and it came away from the main cab. With unrestrained enthusiasm, he pointed out the laser guns concealed as diesel exhaust stacks, as well as the cannons, anti-aircraft guns and the armored, extendable front grill which could withstand a direct laser blast and which could be used as a battering ram.

Alex was fascinated by the machine's brute strength. "That's no truck. It's a monster, a … a rhinoceros!"

Bruce chuckled. "I dub thee, 'Rhino,'" he said, tapping the semi cab on each fender with his forefinger.

"That's a fearful lot of weaponry you have there. Is it all really necessary?" Alex asked.

"I think so," Matt replied.

"The bee steals pollen from every flower in the meadow, but it takes a bear to raid the beehive," Bruce said.

Alex sighed heavily and aimed a pleading look at Matt.

"He thinks so, too," Matt explained.

In the new computer room, hidden behind a false wall in the heart of Trakker mansion, the three men felt safe to discuss their audacious scheme for combatting the most dangerous criminal organization in the world. They didn't realize that their plans had already been discovered and they were under surveillance from above. Two pairs of beady eyes watched through the skylight as the men turned back to their "toys."

"What are these others?" Alex asked, turning his attention away from "his" Rhino with an effort.

Bruce pointed out a jeep that launched a motorboat from under its hood, a pickup truck that bristled with armament and a motorcycle that could sprout rotors and fly like a helicopter. These were the ones under construction, he explained, along with a sports car whose model he picked up and cradled protectively.

"What does that one do, Bruce?" Matt asked curiously.

Bruce just grinned at him. The Japanese inventor had been evading questions about that particular prototype all morning. "Allow me to keep a few secrets, Matt. This car is for you. Do not open until Dec. 25."

Matt had to laugh, but his curiosity was raised to fever peak when Bruce kept the car in his hand, refusing to let Matt so much as touch it. Instead the toy designer talked about other vehicles which were still on the drawing board: a Corvette that became a seaplane, a drag racer that literally flew, a racing stock car that doubled as a submarine, a van with a rising gun turret and a van that launched a small plane.

There was also a supersonic transport jet that could land on water or on the ground, could cruise at very slow speeds and was entirely operated by computer. It was designed to fly men and equipment anywhere in the world.

"Very impressive," Alex said in appreciation. "But aren't you chaps getting a trifle carried away? The three of us can only drive one vehicle apiece, you know. And none of us can fly a helicopter."

"Well, I wasn't planning on doing this all by myself, Alex," Matt said. "I was planning to recruit a team of volunteers to carry some of the load. A nice, even dozen, I guess. Only… I'm not sure how to go about it."

"Trust to serendipity, Matt," Alex said.

"Huh?" said Bruce.

Alex was delighted to have turned the tables on the proverb-happy oriental. "Serendipity, old chap. It's chance meetings and happy happenstance. It's the ability to make fortunate and unexpected discoveries by pure accident," Alex said.

"But how reliable is it?" Matt said drily.

"It brought Bruce storming into your office, didn't it? Matthew, if the time has come for your idea — and the more I think about it, I believe it has — then serendipity will follow you," Alex said sincerely.

"You don't mind if, in the meantime, I go hunting for the type of person I think might be of help to us, do you? You know, a race car driver or a helicopter pilot, for instance."

"Certainly not, my boy. The Lord helps those who help themselves. But tell me, just what sort of person are you looking for?"

Matt had done a lot of thinking about this. "I need multi-talented people, people with a number of specialties, such as your computer expertise and your experience with animals. And of course we need the physical 'combat' skills, expert driving and flying. And I want what Dell Shannon calls 'the born cop,' the sort of person who sees trouble and jumps toward it instead of sensibly running away. But most of all, I'd like to find people with a sense of honor a … a feeling of responsibility toward others."

"Brave, honest, loyal, trustworthy … " Alex summed up ironically. "Now where have I heard all that before? So in essence you're looking for an overgrown Boy Scout with strong suicidal tendencies?"

Matt's laugh was cut short as a shadow fell across the skylight, immediately followed by a scream from the roof.

"T-Bob, look out!" The tubby robot had leaned too far out, overbalanced and fell, with a crash, through the skylight, dragging the boy with him.

"Scott!" Matt shouted in desperation as he saw his son plunge toward the floor.

As the men dodged flying glass, T-Bob extended his telescoping arms in a frantic grab at the edge of the skylight. He caught it, and Scott caught him. They dangled there, in the center of the room, just above a table full of hard-edged models and sharp shards of glass. Scott felt like a yoyo at the end of a string.

Scott looked at his father's face, which was almost white with the anger born of a shocking fright.

"Uh … Hi, Dad!" the boy said brightly.

Before Trakker could force a strangled sound past his paralyzed throat, T-Bob lowered Scott to the floor.

"Gee, Dad," the boy chattered nervously. "If you're looking for an overgrown Boy Scout, why don't you try Hondo? He's the biggest … "

"Don't try to change the subject, young man!" Matt found his voice in a parental roar. "What were you doing on the roof?"

"Would you believe we were trying to catch a pigeon for dinner?" T-Bob put in brightly.

The look Matt gave him almost melted the robot's circuits.

"No, I didn't think so," T-Bob said in a subdued voice.

"We wanted to find out what was going on," Scott admitted. "Only T-Bob got clumsy again."

"Heights always make my transistors spin," the robot muttered.

Ignoring the glass, Matt got down on one knee to look his son straight in the eye. He put his hands on the boy's shoulders. His voice shook from reaction. "My god, Scott! Don't you realize you could have been killed! Promise me you'll never do anything like that again. Promise!"

Some of Scott's schoolmates were envious that his father didn't believe in corporal punishment. But Scott would have rather been beaten with a club than have his father look at him like that, with the horrible, haunted expression in his eyes that Scott could only remember seeing once before, the day his mother died.

The boy threw his arms around Matt's neck. There were tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Dad. Honest," Scott said into his father's shoulder. "I won't climb on the roof again. I promise." Then he stepped back and looked at Matt. "But it isn't fair. I was in the beginning of this, just like Bruce. I want to help."

"You'll be safer if I keep you out of this," Matt said grimly.

"I'm not so sure of that," Alex interjected, surprising both Matt and Scott. "I remember a boy like him once. A tow-headed hellion, never could take no for an answer. Always had to know what was going on."

The tow-headed elder Trakker glared at Alex.

"Seriously, Matt. I don't know how you're going to keep the lad out of it when we'll be working here in his own house. And his curiosity will lead him to perhaps more dangerous investigations unless he's allowed to participate."

"There is another point," Bruce added, as he swept broken glass into a compartment in T-Bob which the robot obligingly opened for him. "You have always traveled everywhere with your son. It is common knowledge. One of the points of our battleplan has been that you can travel all over the world, wherever Venom activity is suspected, without looking suspicious, because you have business and charitable interests almost everywhere. But the zebra who wants to remain with the herd had better not wear the tiger's stripes."

"What's he going on about this time?" Alex demanded.

"He just means that if I don't want to look suspicious, I'd better not change my habits. And that means taking Scott with me, even if it's dangerous," Matt said softly. "I don't know whether it's worth it."

Matt looked at his 10-year-old and hesitated on the brink of giving the whole idea up. The others all knew it. Bruce held his breath. Alex didn't know whether to be relieved or sad. T-Bob prayed for Matt to say, "forget it." But Scott was in an absolute panic that the greatest adventure he'd ever dreamed of would be canned before it even got started.

"Dad, you told me that you've always got to do what's right, even if it's unpopular. Isn't it the same if it's dangerous," Scott argued. "Think of all the people Venom's hurt, maybe some of them were kids, too. And when they burned down Bruce's lab, they didn't care if the whole neighborhood caught on fire. You've got to stop them, Dad. You're the only one who can!"

Matt saw through to his son's true motive; but the boy's words hit home anyway.

"You're right, son," he said as he relaxed. "But if I let you help, do you think you can follow orders and stay out of trouble?"

"Sure, Dad," the boy said blithely.

Matt doubted it, but it was the best he could manage.

"So, who's this Hondo chap?" Alex asked.

"Huh? Oh!" Matt remembered Scott's hasty words with difficulty. "Hondo MacLean. You know, that's not a bad idea, Scott."

The boy looked gratified at having helped already.

"So who is he?" Alex asked again.

Matt looked his old friend straight in the eye and said, without any inflection at all, "He's Scott's scoutmaster."

Bruce snorted, but Alex's eyes sparked alight.

"Serendipity!" he murmured.

"Maybe you're right, Alex," Matt admitted. "We certainly did receive Hondo's name," he looked up at the gaping skylight, "out of the blue."

"Tell us about this Hondo person," Bruce said.

"He's really neat," Scott said eagerly. "And he's strong. About the strongest person I've ever seen."

The others looked at Matt for confirmation.

"I'd have to agree with that," the eldest Trakker said.

"Remember the time he lifted the camper out of the mud?" Scott said.

"How could I forget?"

Bruce frowned.

"Hondo MacLean," he said slowly. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"I didn't know you were a football fan, Bruce," Matt said by way of a hint.

Bruce's eyes opened wide.

"Oh! That Hondo MacLean."

Alex looked at them impatiently. He'd been in the U.S. since he was a young man, but he never had understood the American fascination with the controlled chaos of U.S. football.

"Would you chaps mind explaining?"

Matt had a sudden, sharp flashback to half a dozen camping trips when he and Hondo had sat around the campfire swapping life stories after the young scouts were tucked into their sleeping bags. He could almost smell the wood smoke and taste the day-old coffee from the bottom of the pot, as he began his story.

"Hondo came from a middle class family, but he knew there wouldn't be enough money to put him through college. And he decided when he was still in grade school that he was going to college, so he used his natural athletic skills to fulfill his dream. In high school, he led a previously mediocre football team to league championships two years in a row. He was All-League and All-State both those years. He was also All-League in basketball and track. And he won a Golden Gloves medal."

Matt shook his head in wonder, "All that, and he graduated with honors, too. Needless to say, all the colleges were after him. And he chose the best one — not the school with the best football team — the best school. But while he was there, it had the best team in its division. Sportswriters claimed he was practically a player-coach, that he had a grasp of strategy and tactics that a general would be proud of. I know he plays those war games where history buffs replay famous battles to see how new factors might affect them. Anyway, Hondo had the ability to weld a bunch of guys into a smoothly functioning team. Despite his outstanding personal talents, he was always a team player, never a grandstander. After graduation, he received offers from pro teams, some incredible offers, but he turned them all down to teach social studies at Boulder Hill Junior High School!"

"I remember seeing his 'farewell speech' on television," Bruce said. "He thanked everyone, his family, teammates, coaches. He thanked them for the opportunity they gave him to go to school. He said football was a great game and he loved it; but it's only a game. 'And a man can't play games for the rest of his life.' I remember the newscaster couldn't understand why someone would give up all that money just to teach school. But I understood."

"Hondo told me the most influential people in his life, outside his own family, had been teachers," Matt said. "He said he can't imagine any more important job than preparing young minds for the future."

"In other words, he's the very overgrown Boy Scout we're looking for," Alex said with a smile. "It should work. Since he's a junior high teacher, he's used to working in dangerous situations."

"But will he be interested?" Bruce asked.

"There's only one way to find out," Matt smiled. "But before we try to recruit anyone new, I think we ought to be sure exactly what we have to offer."

"Yes. Well, I've been meaning to ask you: you've got these vehicles to counter Venom's vehicles, but what are you going to do about their bally masks?"

Matt and Bruce exchanged delighted grins. They'd been just waiting for Alex to ask.

"While Bruce was busy with the vehicle prototypes, I was doing a little tinkering of my own," Matt said.

He opened a cupboard and pulled out two masks. One was orange and reminded Alex vaguely of a frog. It had round goggle eyes and two gray cables, or possibly air hoses, running from the "mouth" to the sides of the throat. The other mask was red and maroon in color with a gray grill for a muzzle and two high ridges on the skull which ran down to form square eye pieces.

Alex realized that the masks matched in color the jumpsuits the others were wearing — tan and orange with a gray chest piece for Bruce, brown with a padded red and maroon vest for Matt.

His guess was confirmed when Bruce picked up the orange mask and fitted it on. It slipped over his head easily and connected with a distinct click to the neck of the jumpsuit.

"Allow me to demonstrate," Bruce said, in a voice subtly changed by electronics but only slightly muffled by the all-enveiling mask. "Lifter, on!" he commanded.

Through his specially treated lenses, Bruce could see rings of light encircle the Brit. Tilting his head, Bruce raised the rings toward the ceiling.

Alex didn't see a thing, but he felt his feet lift from the floor as he floated gently toward the broken skylight. Scott stared, then clapped his mouth shut when he realized he was gawking. He tried to pretend he'd seen Alex walking on air every day of his life.

"I say!" Alex exclaimed. "Matthew, is that one of those anti-gravity plates of yours?"

"The same principle," Matt agreed. "Though Lifter doesn't float itself, it reaches out and grabs other things."

Bruce set Alex down gently.

"A rather pleasant sensation, that," the older man commented when his feet were firmly planted on the floor again.

Bruce shut Lifter off and removed the mask.

"There's one thing I don't understand, Matt," he said in puzzlement.

"Only one?" Alex muttered, mostly to himself. "All these gadgets are getting me bloody well confused."

Bruce ignored Alex's plaint, which, from the enjoyment shining in the older man's eyes, was obviously nonsense, anyway. The toy wizard addressed Matt.

"This anti-gravity lifter could be very valuable in many fields — construction, rescue. How is it that you have kept it a secret?"

"Because it bloody well doesn't work, of course," Alex said.

"But it did work," Scott protested.

"No, Alex is right, Scott. It doesn't work properly," Matt said. "It draws a tremendous amount of energy, Bruce. More than is generally available or affordable. It would cost a lot less for a construction company to use an ordinary crane for a week, than to use Lifter for one day."

Bruce looked at the Lifter mask in bewilderment. "Then why does it work here?"

"I suspect because Matt used one of his supercharged, double-life batteries, eh chap?"

"Five of them," Matt corrected. "They provide enough power for Lifter, all right, and they don't weigh as much as you'd think. But they don't work right, either," Matt said hastily as Bruce opened his mouth.

Matt got a small penlight out of another cupboard and handed it to Bruce.

"Here, turn this on. It's got one of my batteries in it."

The small flashlight weighed next to nothing in Bruce's hand. It didn't even have as much heft as a penlight loaded with an ordinary Double A battery. The oriental obediently turned it on.

He gasped as the device seemed to double in weight, and then grow heavier and heavier still. His arm sagged, all the energy draining away from it. A feeling of numbness spread to his shoulder.

Matt snatched the penlight away from Bruce and snapped it off.

Bruce looked at the innocent-seeming device with astonishment as he tried to massage the feeling back into his arm.

"Sorry," Matt said. "But it's hard to describe unless you've experienced it. The battery in that thing is nearly exhausted. But its magnetic properties are such that it tries to keep on working, and it draws on the natural electrical energy of the human body to do it. If it went on long enough, it could kill you."

"I can see that you would not want to market that for use in children's toys," Bruce said carefully. "

"No, they're not ready for general use," Matt said. "But they're safe enough as long as they're kept fully charged and only used for short bursts of energy."

"Then the masks will have to be recharged before each use," Alex pondered, hand on his chin. "Do you know how we're going to do that?"

Matt turned to a cupboard, removed a hinged leather box, and flipped it open under Alex's nose.

"Remember this?" he said.

Bruce gasped. The multi-faceted jewel inside the velvet lined box was about the size of a child's fist. It had no perceptible color, but seemed to pulse with radiance as if it had a beating heart.

Alex picked it up gently, but with familiarity.

"The Eye of the Idol," he said reverently. "I'd forgotten about it." Alex chuckled, "Perhaps I wanted to. It totally defeated me. I never did find out the source of its power."

"Maybe you can, now," Matt suggested. "Science has come a long way in 20 years."

Alex looked simultaneously thoughtful and excited.

"Perhaps I could."

"It would be nice," Matt said wistfully. "I'd like to keep Dad's promise."

The blond man wore a faraway look tinged with sadness Alex touched his shoulder gently, drawing a small smile in response.

Bruce's wide eyes were still on the jewel.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

"It is a pearl of great price and great mystery," Alex said, handing it to the Japanese inventor for study. "It is a jewel of unique composition, only one other like it that we know of. It is also a power amplifier of great strength. Put energy into it, and it can split it into separate beams from each facet; yet each beam will contain exactly the same amount of energy as the original input."

Bruce opened his mouth to protest. Alex held up his hand.

"Don't tell me that's impossible. I know it. The jewel doesn't."

"And it is also the eye of a god, and as such it has to go back," Matt said. He saw Bruce's questioning look and continued, "My father brought it back from one of his expeditions. His plane had crashed in the jungles of New Guinea."

"With typical Trakker luck, his life was saved by a native chief," Alex took up the story. "But the chief was wounded saving Andrew. Andrew nursed him back to health and they became blood brothers, or whatever the New Guinea equivalent is."

"The chief gave my father this jewel hoping he would discover the secret of its power and use it to help all mankind. Father promised he would return it someday to the idol where it belongs. But he never had the chance."

"But in the meantime we'll get some use out of it, hmmm?" Alex said, wanting to break up Matt's sad thoughts.

The younger man grinned.

"And use it to benefit mankind, too," Matt agreed.

"Everyone except Miles Mayhem," Bruce said, placing the jewel back in the box.

"I doubt if the chief would mind the exception," Alex said drily.

**In the next episode:  
MASK gets its acronym  
and Hondo meets space aliens  
in a stroke of serendipity**


	3. Toy Tie-In 3

**The Origin of MASK**

**Chapter 3: A Potential Toy Tie-In, Part 3**

_**By Qweb and/or Jelsemium**_

"I also know where we'll do the recharging, Alex. And it's another trip down memory lane. Remember Dad's old bomb shelter?"

Alex looked up in startlement. Certainly he remembered. He'd met Matt's father when he installed some computer equipment in the shelter that had been built during the panic-stricken early 60s. It was a few years later that Alex, a young man and a recent immigrant from Britain, had worked for Trakker upgrading the facility into a workroom since the shelter was now considered a rather silly idea.

The room was buried deep in the hill laughingly called "Boulder Mountain." Local people said that after passing through miles of seemingly endless Nevada desert, the small, rocky hill must have looked like a mountain to the settlers coming through. They agreed that Boulder Hill was a much more accurate name, leading to the confusing difference between the names of the town and the "mountain."

To reach the shelter, one had to pass through a tunnel, which, Alex nodded in recollection, started in Trakker mansion just behind the wall he was looking at. In fact, the computer room was built into the start of the tunnel and wasn't actually in the house at all.

"Yes, that would do it," Alex said. "It has its own power source, and I presume you've updated the equipment there."

"I hoped you would take care of that, Alex," Matt said. "You've got a free hand in creating us a war room."

Bruce frowned.

"But the rabbit never builds a one-way burrow," he protested.

"Now that I understood," Alex said. "It might not be safe to have the tunnel run straight from the war room to the mansion."

Matt held up his hand. "Peace, gentlemen. I have anticipated you. I recently purchased the Boulder Hill Gas Station."

"That old relic!" Alex scoffed. "It's been a money loser from the day it opened."

"That makes it exactly what we need. We don't want a lot of people hanging around there, if it's going to be the secret maintenance facility for our organization. It's perfect, Alex. It's built into the mountain and it would hardly be any trouble at all to extend the tunnel to reach it. That would give us our escape route in case of trouble."

"And it will keep our group from tracking up the carpets in the mansion," Alex said deadpan.

Matt made a face at his old friend who frowned at another thought.

"You know, we really need a name for this group," Alex said. "All this 'team' and 'organization' stuff is wearing."

"Any ideas?" Matt asked.

"MASK!" Scott exclaimed.

The boy had been busy with a pen and a sheet of paper. Now he held up his second contribution to the war effort.

The paper read: Mobile

Armored

Strike

Kommand

"Now I know why you only got a 'C' in in spelling," Matt sighed.

Scott frowned at his work.

"Oh. But it doesn't look right with a 'C'," he said when he saw his mistake.

"Anyone who spells 'tracker' with a double 'K' has no right to complain," Alex said. "I like it. It's short and to the point. MASK."

"And it certainly identifies our most outstanding feature," Bruce said, patting Lifter affectionately.

"MASK it is," Matt said, to Scott's delight.

"Now about that war room …" Alex said.

Matt didn't approach Hondo MacLean for a couple of weeks, not until the underground headquarters was complete and the armored command post cum maintenance yard was hidden behind the sleepy exterior of a renovated Boulder Hill gas station. The station itself was ready to open for business as soon as someone was hired to man the pumps.

Four masks were complete and another three stood half-assembled on Matt's workbench waiting for components that had been ordered from separate, top-notch research labs in which Trakker Enterprises had a small interest.

When Matt and Bruce went to visit Hondo, they took two of the masks with them as part of their sales pitch. They also took the new, tangerine orange pickup truck, which had been the first vehicle off the MASK "assembly line," because it required the fewest structural modifications.

It was nearly 4 p.m. when they pulled up to the school in the pickup which Bruce admiringly called a "hot, little firecracker." They expected to find the place fairly deserted, though they knew Hondo would be working late after coaching the basketball team.

But Matt and Bruce were surprised to see a small crowd gathering out front, looking toward the roof. Bruce followed the general upward gaze and grabbed Matt's arm in alarm.

A boy in his teens, dressed in gym shorts and a T-shirt, straddled the railing at the edge of the flat roof. His eyes were wide and glazed, and his wild gestures seemed about to hurl him from his perch.

He faced a broad-shouldered black man who was dressed in a gray sweat suit, which was apt, because he was sweating fiercely. That was the only sign of his tension, however. He kept his manner calm and his voice low as he tried to talk the frenzied youngster into stepping away from the edge.

"That's Hondo," Matt said in a low voice as he edged Firecracker around the corner, out of sight.

"Looks like he needs some help," Bruce suggested, touching the mask in his lap.

Matt gave his friend a tight smile in response.

"Come on, Tommy," Hondo said in his deep, smooth voice. "We can talk about it. Whatever the problem is, we can work it out."

The boy shook his head violently and swung his other leg to the outside of the railing.

"No, there's no use. There's not one thing wrong. Everything's wrong. My parents found out. Dad threw me out of the house and I don't have any more money so I can't buy any more stuff and Duffy won't give me any more credit. Nobody cares whether I live or die. Why should I?"

The boy thrust himself away from the railing as if doing a swan dive toward the pavement two stories below. The crowd screamed and fled. Hondo lunged toward the railing and bent far over, feeling his fingers just brush the boy's sweater. Too late.

The man hung there, looking down at the scene of imminent tragedy. The moment was indelibly printed on his memory. The crowd ran. The boy seemed to float in mid-air. Seemed to? And, standing firm at the edge of the scattering crowd, were two figures who looked like space creatures in a science fiction movie. One masked face stared at the boy. The other tilted his face up and …

Hondo cried out and staggered backwards as a blinding light blotted out the scene. A light like a thousand flash bulbs that had, surely, come from the second creature's eyes. Hadn't it? Frantically, Hondo rubbed his eyes with his forearm, blinking away the glowing green afterimage, and looked over the railing again.

Tommy, much bewildered, was standing safely on the ground, held by two of Hondo's colleagues. People blinked and rubbed their eyes and wondered aloud where the light had come from and why the boy wasn't hurt. Hondo heard more than one voice claim it was a miracle.

And the two … creatures? … were gone.

Talking with the police and the ambulance attendants who came to take the strung out child, Hondo didn't mention his "space people." He figured he'd be yanked into the ambulance along with Tommy if he did. He didn't know if anyone else had seen the oddly dressed pair at the edge of the crowd, but he wasn't going to be the one to mention them.

Even without mentioning costumed intruders, it took a long time for the police to take his statement about how the kid freaked out during practice and fled to the roof. Hondo was weary and soul sick when he finally walked back to get his stuff in the virtually empty school.

"Hey, Hondo," said another teacher on his way out. "There are a couple of guys waiting for you. Said you expected them. So I put them in the teacher's lounge."

Hondo moaned. He'd forgotten all about Matt's appointment, naturally.

He aimed his footsteps toward the lounge.

"Matt, I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but we had some troub … " he said as he came through the door. When he saw his visitors, he stopped in the middle of a word.

Though they had left their masks in the pickup, their outfits were unmistakably those of the men from outer space.

"We know, Hondo," Matt said. "We were there."

Hondo eased himself into a chair, still staring.

"You two," he said. "You did … What did you do?" He aimed his bewildered look at the orange-clad Bruce. "The boy didn't fall. He flew! How?"

Then the teacher remembered he was talking to one of the foremost inventors in the country and turned to Trakker.

"Matt, what are you up to now!"

The blond inventor chuckled and told him.

Three cups of coffee and nearly an hour later, Hondo shook his head again.

"And you want me to join this 'MASK' group of yours?"

"You'd be invaluable to us, Hondo, particularly in the beginning. We're going to have to take a bunch of people and turn them into a team. That's always been your specialty," Matt said.

"On the playing field, Matt. Not the battlefield."

"The same strategies apply, Hondo."

The black man shook his head yet again, thinking of Tommy and the drugs that had pushed him over the edge, literally.

"There's so much evil in the world, Matt. Even here at school. Why do I need to go hunting this Venom crew?" he said softly.

"You have to start somewhere, Hondo," Matt replied, just as softly.

Hondo grinned wryly.

"I don't know, Matt. I've seen you come up with some crazy ideas; but this one … "

"To land on the moon, men had to build a mechanical spider," Bruce said solemnly.

"Huh?" Hondo said.

"Bizarre situations call for bizarre solutions," Matt translated.

He saw the teacher was still uncertain.

"You don't have to decide now. There's no obligation to buy. Our offer has a lifetime guarantee and is fully refundable in case you change your mind. Just one thing," Matt continued more seriously, "Don't mention this to anyone else, whatever you decide."

"You can depend on that!" Hondo said. "Think I want to wind up in the booby hatch?"

Matt wasn't disappointed as Hondo escorted him and Bruce through the echoing corridors toward the parking lot. He knew Hondo was a man of imagination and he was sure his "bizarre" scheme would set that imagination afire.

Alex had been right, Matt thought. There were times when you just had to trust your luck. The millionaire felt the famous Trakker luck gathering momentum. It had been serendipity that brought Bruce and him to the school at the precise moment when they could best demonstrate the lifesaving abilities of MASK. And serendipity was going to carry them through; he could feel it.

As the three silent men left the building, Hondo froze in astonished fury. Duffy, the local drug dealer — not that the police had been able to prove anything — was standing in the school parking lot, talking with a fascinated group of neighborhood kids, most of them too young to go to the junior high. Duffy's two, ever-present guardians lingered nearby.

"Duffy!"

The animal roar sprang from Hondo's throat, scattering the kids like fall leaves before a hurricane.

The mask of geniality dropped from the drug dealer's eyes as he turned to face Hondo, the major obstacle to Duffy's bid to become top dealer in the city. Hondo lived in the same neighborhood where he taught and he did his best, both in and out of school, to keep the local kids away from drugs. He was real bad for Duffy's business.

Duffy was as big as Hondo, but he eyed the black man warily. He knew the teacher's reputation.

His two goons moved to flank him. They watched Hondo's supporters with contempt. Each outweighed Matt by a good hundred pounds, and Bruce was smaller still.

Together they wouldn't make one good opponent, the older of the two goons thought, and went back to watching Hondo. But the younger of the two, hardly more than a boy really, just high school age, eyed Bruce with more suspicion than seemed warranted.

"You want something, MacLean?" the dealer said insolently. "I was just talking to the kids."

"Yeah, and we both know why, don't we," Hondo snarled. "I told you to keep your slimy self off the school yard. Now get off before I throw you off."

"Take it easy. We were just going," the dealer turned with calculated slowness. "Too bad about the Hawthorne kid. Heard he almost took a high dive today."

With a wordless growl, Hondo reached for the man's shoulder to turn him around. But the dealer had been waiting, baiting Hondo into rash action. Duffy spun first, a knife in his hand, slashing for Hondo's fingers to maim him for what would be the rest of a very short life. But Hondo's hand wasn't where it had been.

The black man, who wasn't slow for all his size, snatched back his hand and danced out of the way of a follow-up thrust.

The drug dealer crouched, his knife gleaming in the fading daylight. His teeth were bared, like a wild animal set for the kill.

Hondo looked at him, and smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

"I was hoping you'd do that," he said.

Duffy wondered if he'd made a mistake; but it was too late to back out. He drove in, slashing with his knife at Hondo's belly. The former Golden Glover darted aside, dropped his shoulder low and ripped a fist into Duffy's stomach as the big Irishman roared past. He followed up the blow with a highly illegal right to the kidneys, which would have gotten him disqualified in the ring.

The drug dealer dropped his knife and clutched his side. Still bent over he began to turn, and Hondo straightened him up with a classic right to the jaw.

But the dealer was tough. Anger seemed to erase his pain and he began to trade punches with Hondo. Toe-to-toe, the two big men stood, slugging it out.

But Hondo's preoccupation with Duffy didn't prevent him from keeping an eye on his two smaller friends.

The older of Duffy's henchmen didn't care to mess around with fisticuffs when he had something more effective. When he saw his boss lose the knife, his hand dove into his jacket.

Matt didn't wait to see whether he was reaching for a gun or a knife. The MASK leader threw himself headfirst into his first combat situation. He butted the unsuspecting thug in the midsection, hearing the man's grunt of astonishment. His legs driving hard, Matt wrapped his arms around the man's waist and threw the both of them to the ground, making sure to land on top. The thug's head thwacked against the pavement and the air whooshed from his lungs as Matt's full weight landed across his chest.

The goon lay unmoving, wheezing gently, as Matt removed a nasty looking revolver from his inside pocket.

The youngest of the criminal trio had moved cautiously toward Bruce. The oriental studied his large, but young, opponent, then leaped into a crouching karate stance, hands poised like slashing blades.

"Hai!" Bruce shouted fiercely.

The youngster hesitated. Warily he circled the smaller man who remained in the ready stance, moving with the boy.

Out of the corner of his eye, the youth saw his comrade lying unconscious, saw his boss falter under Hondo's pounding. In front of him, he saw the Japanese man's face twist into a devilish mask.

Bruce leaped to the attack shouting, "Hai!"

The youngster's nerve broke and he fled the fiendish sight, running down the street as if pursued by demons.

Slowly Bruce straightened up.

A heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. Heart racing, he spun; but it was only Hondo, who'd put his opponent down in the third round. His scientific boxing had triumphed over Duffy's brute force.

"Why didn't you stop him?" Hondo complained, indicating the fleeing youth.

"Me?" Bruce said indignantly. "He was three times my size. He could have killed me."

"But … " Hondo said, miming a karate chop.

"Oh, that," Bruce said. "I'm just a peace-loving toymaker. All I know is … Hai!"

He again leaped into the ferocious seeming karate stance. Then he pointed at the distant youngster.

"He watches too many kung fu movies. And so, my friend, do you."

Matt, who'd used Firecracker's radio to call the police, came back to join the group. Hondo turned his attention to him.

"And you, it was pure luck that thug was watching me and didn't see you until you hit him."

"It sure was," Matt agreed cheerfully.

"You mean to tell me, you two plan on tackling one of the biggest criminal organizations in the world and neither of you knows how to fight?"

Matt shrugged.

"You are crazy!" Hondo exclaimed.

Bruce shrugged.

They heard the sound of distant sirens. They listened for a while as the wail grew closer and Hondo grew more calm.

Suddenly the teacher began to laugh. Matt and Bruce might not be much at fighting, he realized, but they both knew how to "use their heads" in a crisis.

He looked down at the unconscious garbage at his feet and remembered what Matt had said about having to start somewhere. This looked like a pretty good start to him.

"Hey, Matt," he said softly. "Show me around that project of yours tomorrow?"

"I thought you weren't interested," Matt teased.

Hondo shrugged.

"Somebody's got to teach you guys how to take care of yourselves."

Sly Rax of the organization known as Venom was idly thumbing through a supermarket tabloid when he came across an item of interest right next to the two-day popsicle diet, just under the story about the Dalmatian raised by a family of baboons.

"Hey, Mayhem, look at this," he said.

The story told about the attempted suicide of a drug-crazed teenager who threw himself off a building only to float lightly to the ground aided by aliens from outer space. Several witnesses claimed to have seen the aliens who wore weird space suits and funny looking masks. Police discounted the story as mass hysteria and said it was just chance that the boy hadn't been injured by the two-story fall.

"Sounds like someone's stealing our act," Rax joked, pointing out the part about the funny-looking masks.

"Don't tell me you believe everything you read, Rax," Vanessa scoffed. "Don't you know they make up all the stories in that rag."

"Really?" said Dagger in disappointment.

"Don't be too hasty, Vanessa," said Miles Mayhem. "I've found treasures following slimmer leads that this. Put the word out. I want to know if anyone is making masks like ours — and why."

"You know, Vanessa might be right," Rax said, as much as he hated to. "Maybe the reporter just made the whole thing up to fill space."

"Maybe," Mayhem said speculatively. "And maybe we should investigate this town. This … " he checked the paper again. "This Boulder Hill, Nevada."

**In the next episode:  
Matt and company must depend on "The Buddy System,"  
when a mysterious intruder breaks into  
MASK headquarters and the Trakker mansion,  
and all of Matt's super security fails to keep him from learning  
the secret of MASK!**


	4. Buddy System 1

_A/N: The Buddy System was written primarily by Jelsemium with tweaking by me. The Buddy System __is the second chapter of The Origin of Mask. It's been broken into three parts to make it easier to digest._

**The Origin of MASK**

**Chapter 4: The Buddy System, Part 1**

**By Jelsemium and/or Qweb**

The young man pushed his squishy red cap to the back of his head, shifted his backpack from left shoulder to right shoulder and decided that this was a really dumb place to put a gas station. But then, deserts weren't exactly this city boy's idea of a smart place to put anything.

He'd hitched as far as he could, but the traffic had thinned dramatically when he'd turned off the main drag a while back. He'd just about convinced himself that his information was a total crock and that there was no gas station, when he spotted Boulder Mountain.

"Mountain! More like an over grown boulder ! And not overgrown by much."

There was nobody there to hear his sarcastic appraisal, not even at the gas station.

"Oh, great!" he said in his slightly flat tenor. "Why do I do this to myself? Now I gotta walk back, too!

He swung the backpack around and fished inside for his thermos. Empty. He made a motion as if to throw the offensive object away from him, then snorted with disgust and stuffed it back into his backpack as he went to study the equally offensive gas station.

It looked ready for use, so with renewed optimism he began to hunt around for a coke machine. He found it, inside the locked garage. Conveniently located for a hard-working and deserving mechanic (Here he smiled and bowed to his reflection in the window.) But not so convenient for thirsty job applicants. He could get in easily enough, but if by chance the owner/manager came along that could prove detrimental to his pension plan.

Another thought struck him and he approached the pumps, if the water was connected. . . ahh, much better. He waited until the water went from scalding to lukewarm before drinking and refilling his thermos.

He scoped out the building as he hauled out a somewhat squished hero sandwich. Both the office and garage seemed to be built into the mountain itself, with no backside to either. He shrugged and sat down in the scant shade at the side of the garage to meditate upon his next move in his employment campaign.

* * *

Matt was making some fine adjustments to yet another mask as Alex Sector walked into the lab at the Trakker mansion.

"Matt?"

"I'll be through in a second Alex," the blond inventor said.

Alex was reminded of Matt's ten-year-old, and laughed: "You're as bad as Scott with his erector set."

Matt looked up and grinned. "He does take after his old man, doesn't he?"

Alex ran his hand over his bald pate and didn't answer, "old" was something of a sore point with him right now, and he didn't want to think about it just yet.

"What's that one do?"

"Alex, meet Penetrator, the ultimate skeleton key."

"Charmed, I'm sure. But what does it do?"

Matt placed the green mask over his head and said, "Penetrator: on." A green glow engulfed the inventor, making his outline blur. Then Matt strolled out the door… without opening it. He came back through the wall.

"My word! That is an interesting gadget," Alex frowned as a sudden thought hit him. "Isn't the name just a trifle cumbersome, though?"

"Penetrator is a very tricky device. It works by taking advantage of the fact that atoms are mostly empty space. There are four main components to it: the 'softener,' to loosen the atomic bonds, the 'discriminator' which determines whether the user goes through something or takes it with him, the 'stabilizer' which keeps the user from blowing up when he goes through an object, and the 'assembler,' which puts the user back together again."

"That sounds useful," Alex observed drily. "And I suppose each component has separate power units and backups?"

"You got it," Matt agreed. "The last thing we need is to blow a fuse in this thing. And, of course, each circuit needs a separate cue to 'warm' them up. Hence the four syllables of 'Penetrator.' They all go on …"

"When you say 'On,'" Alex finished. "May I try it?"

"Sure." Matt handed the older man the mask. "I got somewhat dizzy the first time I tried it, but I think I've worked that bug out."

"Penetrator, on"

"Penetrator, OFF!"

Alex yanked off the mask and collapsed onto a lab stool. For a minute he was afraid he was going to be ill. He set the mask on the workbench with elaborate care.

"A little dizzy!"

"Are you all right?" Matt asked anxiously.

"I think so," said Alex, regaining his equilibrium. "I think you need to work on this one a bit more."

"Blast! And I thought I had it all fixed. I didn't have any reaction the third time I used it."

"Maybe it just takes some getting used to." Alex put the mask on again. "Penetrator, on."

"It's definitely a queer feeling, but nowhere near as bad as the first time," he reported. "Penetrator, OFF."

Matt took back the mask and studied it intently. "Hmm, maybe the stabilizer interface…"

"Whatever it is, it will have to wait," Alex said, as he remembered his original errand. "Bruce called in and wants you to meet him at the gas station. He has a surprise for you."

"Do tell? Did he say what kind of surprise?"

"He might have, but you know I can't understand half of what that chappie says."

Matt laughed, "Well, I guess it's time to test out my underground toy, anyway."

* * *

Buddy was awakened by a rumbling noise.

"But there's no subway here," he muttered.

There were, however, voices coming from the garage.

He stretched himself awake, pulled his 'art kit' from his backpack, tidied himself up, and went to meet the owner of the gas station in the middle of nowhere.

* * *

Bruce Sato grinned as Matt Trakker studied the red and purple sports car curiously.

"O.K., Bruce," said Matt mildly, "what's this vehicle supposed to do? Besides giving me a reputation for color-blindness, that is."

"A bird's bright plumage can distract attention from its talons."

Matt gave Bruce a sidelong look and said: "You mean this thing can fly?"

In answer, Bruce got into the car and manhandled the gear lever. Both doors popped up and set themselves like real gull wings, the cheater raised up higher, and the taillights jumped out of the way of jet boosters.

"I'm impressed…" Matt started.

"So am I, that's a mean lookin' vehicle."

Dutch-American and Japanese-American inventors jumped guiltily and turned around to face the invader.

They saw a man, possibly in his mid-twenties, medium tall, with a stocky build. His hair, what could be seen of it under his squishy red cap, was somewhere between blond and brunet, with red highlights thrown in for good measure. Dark eyes of indeterminate color regarded them amiably from a slightly sunburnt face.

On his part, the intruder found himself facing a blond-haired, blue-eyed man, somewhat taller than himself, though probably around the same weight.

The other one was average height and weight for someone of Japanese descent, with a slight accent that made the newcomer wonder if the man was actually from Japan.

May I help you?" Matt asked politely, getting his mental feet under himself.

"Either of you the owner?"

"I am," replied Trakker. "What can I do for you?"

"Name's Robert M. Haskett, from Anaheim. I was passing through and heard that this gas station was just opening, and I thought I'd see if you could use a good mechanic."

Matt looked at him thoughtfully, "No, I could use a great mechanic."

"Good, then I'm your man." He strolled over to the gaudy sports car and handed Trakker an envelope. "Here's my rèsumè."

He turned back to the car. "This looks like a cross between a Thunderbird and a DeLorean." He looked at the Oriental, "Your design?"

Bruce nodded and the mechanic continued his inspection, ignoring the inspection that the other two were giving him. When he came to the back, he stopped in surprise.

"Hmm, XHT-8311 turbo jets, never saw those on a car before."

"You've seen them anywhere before?" Bruce asked curiously.

The applicant shrugged, "My secondary military specialty was aircraft maintenance." He changed the subject back to the car. "You into racing?"

"In a manner of speaking," replied the blond inventor.

The red-capped mechanic turned his attention to the spoiler. "But you're going to have trouble staying on the race track with the spoiler in this position."

"Really?" Trakker asked as he pulled out a sheaf of papers from the envelope.

"Yeah, too much lift, great for airplanes, not so hot for ground vehicles."

While Trakker read his rèsumè, the applicant poked around some more and admiring aloud the car's sleek aerodynamic styling, the reinforced structure, and Bruce's special safety features. He didn't quite let himself degenerate to babbling, but he wanted to show off his knowledge a little.

Matt finished reading and looked over to where his would-be-employee was staring at the inside of one of the gull-wing doors.

"Well, you certainly seem qualified, but you don't seem to have stayed in one job very long. Why is this?"

The applicant tore his gaze from some loose wiring on the inside of the gull wing door.

"After I got out of the army, I had trouble getting a steady job. So I hired out as temporary help whenever I could, trying to build up a rep. It didn't seem to be working in California, so I decided to try my luck back east. I was hitchin' my way to New York when I heard about this place."

"Hmmm, I see. Well, this looks pretty good, but I have some more interviews before I can say for sure. You said you were passing through, do you have a place to stay?"

"Umm, well, I figured there'd be a motel or something around here."

"There is, I could put you up there while I check your credentials and interview other applicants."

"I don't want to put you to any trouble, Mr…?"

"Sorry, Trakker, Matt Trakker."

"Oh!"

"So you see, it would hardly inconvenience me. And since I'm going to have to keep you dangling for a few days, I feel obligated to at least pay for your room." Trakker phrased the offer as diplomatically as he could, since he suspected the young man of being strapped, and too proud to accept charity.

"Well, that's very generous of you…"

"Good then it's settled," Matt interrupted firmly. "Allow me to give you a lift down there, Mr. Haskett."

"Call me Bob," said the applicant.

Trakker dropped Haskett off at the Boulder Hill Motel and drove away towards home. The young man, whose name was not Robert Haskett, looked after him thoughtfully.

"Now, who'da thunk that Matt Trakker, Boy Humanitarian, would get involved in something like this?"

* * *

Matt, Bruce and Alex Sector had a lunch meeting to discuss "Project Toy Tie-in." Alex rubbed his red beard thoughtfully as he examined "Bob Haskett's" rèsumè.

"Well, his credentials seem impressive enough, and anybody who'd peregrinate through the desert looking for work certainly seems crazy enough to be interested. I wonder… Well, I can find out about that when I check him out."

"Find out what?" Bruce asked, injudiciously.

"If he's ever been a Boy Scout."

* * *

"Bob Haskett," aka Buddy Hawks, had never been a Boy Scout, but he did try to be prepared for any contingency.

Originally, his plan had been to worm his way in gradually, but he was going to have to do some revisions. He didn't like moving in prematurely and risk blowing all his elaborate investigative work and careful set up. But he had a feeling that Trakker was getting ready to get a move on, so he had to step up his plans.

First, he got hold of a used motorcycle, no way was he going to get caught in this place without wheels again, then he grabbed some shuteye. He had a feeling that tonight was going to be busy, which suited him just fine, he hated sleeping nights anyway.

* * *

Late that night, he went back to the gas station to poke around to see if that really was a laser cannon mounting he had seen on that gaudy sports car. Any doubts he might have had that there was something odd going on vanished when he examined the defenses of the gas station.

"Man, this place is better guarded than Fort Knox. They really like their privacy."

He got out one of his little black boxes and went to work. The first thing he did when he got inside was help himself to a cola. The second thing he did was notice that the back wall of the garage was fake.

"Hollow," he decided upon closer examination. "How mysterious, I think I like this place."

A search through the building revealed all sorts of interesting gadgets, most of which Hawks couldn't quite figure out. He figured out how to open the door into the mountain easily enough, though.

It bothered his naturally nosy self that he couldn't puzzle out the functions of those bizarre controls, but he promised himself a further investigation at a convenient date and continued into the mountain.

He quickly discovered that he wasn't in a cavern so much as a tunnel, a tunnel with tracks in it.

"Hmm, I thought I heard a subway. I'd better fetch my wheels."

Hawks puttered through the subway as quietly as he could. He estimated that he was halfway through the mountain range, when a side door opened. He nosed in and poked around. Again there were a lot of incomprehensible machines, including a huge round table with the most bizarre looking chandelier he'd ever seen.

"Ahhhg! It's getting so a spy needs a couple of . nowadays. What ever happened to filing cabinets and secret formulas?"

He left that room in disgust. He was beginning to feel he was out of his league, and he didn't like it much.

The end of the line, which had to be some distance from the so-called mountains, was more to his liking. It was somebody's house, somebody's mansion, actually. But at least he could figure out what was in it. Including the burglar alarms. So Buddy prowled happily through the lower floor of the mansion, poking through drawers, opening cabinets, throttling alarms and testing furniture cushions as he went.

"Come on, Hawks, think, where would you put a top secret car? The garage?"

He tried it, but all the vehicles in there were straight.

"Blast, the designer dude must have it. I'd better come up with something interesting fast, I can't spend all night here."

He decided against going upstairs and went back to the room he entered in, on the theory that if it had one weird thing, it might have more. One wall had the normal door to the hall, one had the secret door to the subway, the third was a plain, ordinary, garden-variety wall. The fourth, however, was just loaded with more gadgets.

"Computers! I hate computers," He sighed. "Oh, well, at least I can recognize one when I see it." A little fiddling brought down a viewing screen and Buddy got to work, ignoring the little protests the computer was making about illegal access.

* * *

Matt put Scott and T-Bob to bed after catching them eavesdropping for the third time that night and returned to the upstairs study where Bruce and Alex were waiting for him.

Alex was frowning at the computer readouts, while Bruce fastidiously cleaned up the table and putting away the last of their midnight pizza snack. (Which they had wound up sharing with Scott.)

Alex looked up when Matt entered.

"There is something very disturbing about that job applicant Haskett, or whatever his name is."

"Whatever his name is? What do you mean by that?"

"Well, his records match what he has written down, but I had the feeling that something was wrong. For one thing, his early records are incomplete. The primary school he went to had burnt down and all their pre-computer data was lost. His high school was shut down and all their old, pre-computer records, were somehow mislaid."

Bruce stirred uneasily. "But suspicion is not proof."

"I know," Alex acknowledged. "But I have done some work with intelligence chappies before, and this smelled fishy to me. It's exactly the kind of schools that somebody trying to establish a false identity would use. So I checked the birth records, there was a Robert Mark Haskett who was born in Anaheim and he would have been this chappie's age."

"Would have been? You mean it's not him?" Matt asked.

"It couldn't be, according to the death records Robert Mark Haskett died three days after he was born.

"There couldn't be two of them?" Bruce asked.

"There could be, but there aren't. Not born at the time and place that this chap claims on his rèsumè."

Matt rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. "A plant? Could Mayhem be onto us already?"

Just then the computer interrupted.

"Alert! unauthorized access of main computer terminal."

"Scott?" Alex asked Matt.

"No, he has authorization."

Matt opened his briefcase and the mini-screen popped open.

"Give me a visual on the unauthorized user."

"It's 'Haskett!'" Bruce exclaimed, when the computer complied.

"What's he doing here? And how did he get in without setting off the alarms?" Matt was pretty alarmed himself.

"Why don't we go and ask him?" Alex suggested mildly.

"Good idea. Computer, seal off all exits and alert Hondo McLean."

"Roger."

* * *

Hondo McLean was sound asleep when his MASK emergency summons went off for the first time. He leaped out of bed grabbed his watch and bolted to the closet where he kept his mask. Halfway to the door, the schoolteacher woke the rest of the way up, and made a slight detour to get his clothes. Then he went sailing off to the rescue.

* * *

Buddy was prowling around looking for some sort of interesting papers when he heard a strange noise. "What the devil?"

He cocked his head and listened, years of this sort of thing had given him a good ear for what was going on. There was somebody else sneaking around the house. After him? He hesitated, and glanced at the computer terminal.

"You been telling tales out of school?"

He decided that this was a good time to go, and opened the door to the subway to leave.

There was a man in there, wearing what appeared to be an orange diving helmet. Deciding that he didn't like the looks of that, Buddy turned to go out into the hall. The man at that door was wearing a brown and scarlet helmet with a grill where his mouth ought to be. Buddy didn't much like the looks of that, either. He backed up towards the blank wall to put something solid against his back, in preparation for a fight.

And backed into the third man, who hadn't come through either of the doors.

"Got you!" the man with the green, elongated snout mask said triumphantly, as he grabbed Buddy from behind in a bear hug.

"I hate being got!" Buddy snarled expressing his disapproval by stomping Green Snout/Alex Sector firmly on the insole and planting elbow in Sector's solar plexus.

As Alex released him, Buddy dove forward, and did a neat handspring into Brown Mask/Matt Trakker's stomach. Bounding over that somewhat breathless worthy, Buddy ran like hell for the French doors he had noted earlier.

He barreled into the formal dining room with a rather annoyed Orange Helmet/Bruce Sato hot on his trail.

Going into the dining room gave Sato a clear view, which enabled him to go for the "Lifter, on!" the little rings of power, visible to Bruce alone, encirlced the intruder, and lifted him towards the chandelier.

When a limping Alex and a wheezing Matt came into the room, the cat burglar was floundering helplessly between the ceiling and the chandelier.

"Good, you got him!" said Alex, with a great deal of satisfaction. He forgot that Buddy hated to be "got."

The ceilinged spy clutched the chandelier and glared down on his captors. He felt like a drowning swimmer. "Swimmer?!" The comparison gave him an idea. Releasing his hold, he somersaulted over like Mark Spitz coming to the end of a lap and violently kicked off from the chandelier.

Bruce twisted around in an attempt to keep him sighted, but the kick and the shifting anti-gravity rings were enough to haul anchor on the chandelier.

"BRUCE!" Matt cried.

Bruce turned around to find himself on a collision course with twenty-three pounds of cut glass.

"Lifter, catch!"

The anti-grav rings slowed the angry rush of lighting fixture and lowered it gently to the industrial sized dining room table.

"You all right?" Matt inquired anxiously.

"I believe so, how about you two?" Bruce asked.

"I'll be fine, once we lay hands on this blighter," said Alex.

"He who grabs the tiger's tail had better have a zoo lined up."

"We'll worry about what to do with him after we get him. . . My God! Scott!" forgetting the intruder for the moment, Trakker went racing to his son's room.

"We'd better see that our friend doesn't depart through the subway tunnel," Alex said to Bruce.

* * *

Buddy went screeching around the corner to the French doors, only to find them sealed off with metal shutters.

"Blast! Now what? The subway!"

He reached the door to the computer room the same time that Bruce and Alex did.

"Lifter…"

Buddy heaved a nearby standing whatsis at Bruce before the Asian could finish the command, and dove through a convenient door. And found himself in a not so convenient dead end.

"We've got him now!" Alex exclaimed.

As the two approached the door, Buddy set a chair in the doorway and backed against the far wall. When Bruce and Alex peeked around the corner he charged at the door, launched himself off of the chair and plowed into the startled pair at shoulder height. Buddy tried to grab the masks off as he passed, but couldn't get a firm grip on either of the helmet-like devices. However, by the time the two had regained their equilibrium, Hawks had flown the coup.

"You really must stop saying 'got'," Bruce complained to the red bearded scientist.

Before Alex could reply, Matt came tearing down the stairs looking even more alarmed.

"Scott's not in his room."

"Oh, no!" said Alex in dismay. "We'd better split up and find that intruder before Scott does."

With that comforting thought in mind, the three of them headed in different directions.

* * *

Buddy was rapidly becoming very frustrated by his "locked room mystery".

"Now what? Think, Hawks. Think! Can't go to the computer room. Even if I knew for sure it controls the seals, I couldn't figure out how to disable them."

He tried prying at some of them, but even the upper stories resisted his efforts and the noise attracted one of the masked menaces. And it was becoming difficult to keep out of their way, even in the dark. He'd be in big trouble if they thought to turn on the lights.

**In the next installment:**

**Hondo's on the job**

**and Buddy's in a pickle,**

**but not as big a pickle as Matt and MASK.**


	5. Buddy System 2

**The Origin of MASK**

**Chapter 5: The Buddy System, Part 2**

**By Jelsemium and/or Qweb**

Scott was creeping out of the kitchen with his second midnight snack of the night, when something grabbed him roughly, causing him to drop his slice of pizza and his pickle.

"Hey!"

"Scott!" Matt snapped. "I told you to stay in bed!"

Scott shrank away from his angry father, "But I was hungry!" he protested.

Matt calmed himself down with an effort. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get angry with you. You haven't done anything wrong. But there's a burglar in the house, and I want you to go to your room where it's safe.

Scott's eyes sparkled with excitement. "A burglar! Oh, wow! Where is he? How'd he get by the alarms? What's he want?"

Matt shook his head and smiled wryly.

"I don't know any of that yet. Now go to your room."

"If you don't know where he is, how do you know my room's safe?"

Matt had to admit that Scott had him there.

"C'mon, then, but do exactly what I tell you to do. Where's T-Bob?"

"He's still in bed. Should I go get him?"

Matt had an image of trying to sneak up on the slippery burglar with the clanking, quivering robot in tow and couldn't decide whether to shudder or laugh. He compromised by doing neither and replied:

"No, I think he'll be better off where he is."

Scott, whose mental image was very similar to his dad's, agreed. He picked up his still edible pizza and put it back in the fridge, but forgot about the pickle in his hurry to tag along after his father.

"Where are we going?"

"To seal off the wings from the main house. We want to cut down on his running room as much as possible."

"Does this have anything to do with MASK?" Scott asked eagerly.

"I don't know, son. I wish I did."

Matt also wished that he had his latest brainstorm, the Spectrum Mask. It was far more versatile than the ultra powerful strobe light that Ultra Flash was armed with. He made a mental note to go to Los Angeles to step up construction.

* * *

Hondo McLean tore up to the Boulder Hill gas station on Boulder Mountain in his old, but still running, clunker. "This had better not be a test of the Trakker Emergency Broadcast System."

A look at the gas station convinced him that this was the real thing. The lock had been picked, the Coke machine had been rifled and while the secret entrance to the subway had been closed, the garage wasn't put in proper order.

He punched the control button on the automatic door opener that Matt had given him and drove through the gas station and under the hill into the subway system.

* * *

Down in the basement. Buddy finished sabotaging the regular fuse box, and was looking around to see if he could figure out any way to disarm the defense mechanisms, when there was a greenish glow behind him.

"Ah ha! thought I might find you here," said a voice with a British accent.

Buddy wheeled around, aiming a savate kick at where he estimated the speaker's groin to be. The green glow gave him plenty of light to see his kick land dead on target, and continue through it without stopping. The astonished spy whirled off balance and almost fell flat on his face.

"Penetrator OFF!" Alex couldn't resist such a target and materialized a firm kick on the seat of Buddy's pants, sending the chagrined burglar face first into a pile of unidentified garbage.

"You…" sputtered Hawks, as he pulled several moldy newspapers off of his face.

"Now, now, none of that sort of language! Penetrator ON!"

Buddy rushed the scientist and passed right through him. Again Alex rematerialized to lend a helping foot to the cause.

Buddy, taken off balance yet again, plowed shoulder first into the water heater. He was beginning to sympathize with bulls. He bounced up and swung a blow that went right through his elusive opponent. Alex ran through his sparring partner, solidified and landed a rabbit punch to the kidneys and a huge buffet to the side of Buddy's head. The burglar lurched, and Alex landed another blow on his neck. Hawks went to his knees and shook his head in an effort to clear it as Alex approached in solid form to land another blow.

Buddy flung himself at Alex and managed to get ahold of him before Alex finished the formula. They were both engulfed in the green aura. Buddy, who'd never been dematerialized before, was almost taken out by nausea.

He pulled up his knees and attempted to kick Alex away from him. With both in demat form, the kick landed solidly. Fortunately for Alex, Buddy didn't aim this kick as well as he had the first one. Instead of being incapacitated, Alex was merely winded. Buddy was feeling pretty shaky himself. He heard someone approaching and decided to split the scene.

Alex heard the burglar curse as he tripped over something in the dark. Alex knew there was another exit in the cellar. By the sudden silence, Alex deduced that the intruder had found it just as whoever it was that was approaching came down the main stairs.

"Alex? Are you all right?" Bruce's soft voice was made for clandestine calls.

"Yes, but I'm beginning to regret the size of this house. It could take us days to catch him." Alex got to his feet wearily, wondering if maybe he was too old for this sort of thing.

"We have plenty of time."

"Not if he has friends waiting for him," Alex pointed out.

"Hmm, when the hook and line is too slow, it is time to weave a net."

Alex sighed heavily and sulked off to get Matt to translate. Bruce hurried off towards the lab.

* * *

Buddy slunk through the wine cellar and slithered silently up the stairs and into the hall that lead to the kitchen. His right foot suddenly went out from beneath him and he bounced off the wall with a tooth-jarring thud. Still dizzy from Penetrator, he sat down suddenly and felt around for the object that had laid him low.

"A pickle?! Gimme a break!" The only comforting thought was at least it wasn't a banana. That would have been too much.

Absently taking a bite from the pickled booby trap, he started to ponder his next move. The decision was taken out of his hands.

"Ultra-Flash, hit it!"

The sudden onslaught of bright light after sneaking around in the dark so long was stunning.

Dazed, Buddy dropped the remains of the pickle and sat back on his haunches, while covering his face with his arms. He tried to look, but all he could discern was light and even more light. He couldn't stay there to be picked up like the garbage, so he charged.

Matt sidestepped neatly and pulled Scott to one side. But not quite far enough. Buddy ricocheted off of Scott and went rolling down the hall. Scott was slammed into his father and both went down in a tangled heap. By the time they had sorted themselves out, Buddy was gone.

* * *

Hondo entered the Trakker residence from the subway and found Alex helping Scott and his father to their feet.

"Are you two all right?" Alex was saying.

"That depends on how you would define 'all right'," Matt gasped, wondering if he was too old for this sort of thing.

"Hi, Hondo, guess what?" Scott was all agog with excitement.

"Somebody broke into the gas station and worked his way to your house through the tunnel," Hondo informed them. "He probably stopped in at the MASK room as well."

"Hmm, so that's how he got in," Alex mused.

"Wonderful, so instead of just getting past the house alarms, he got past the garage, subway, and HQ alarms, not to mention all those locks. My security system's beginning to look like Swiss cheese," Matt mourned.

"We'll worry about how he got in later," said the red-bearded strategist. "Right now we have to worry about him getting out."

"I'm open to suggestions," Matt said.

"Good, because I happen to have one."

* * *

Cautiously, Bruce Sato entered the workroom Matt had set aside for him. He didn't seriously expect the invader to be there, but he didn't want to find out the hard way. It was empty, so he hurried to the bench where one of his near misses awaited.

* * *

Buddy's vision was cleared up enough that he could avoid the furniture, most of the time. He found himself in the kitchen and automatically went for the refrigerator. He opened the refrigerator side first, automatically flinching away to protect his sensitive eyes. Then he snorted at himself.

"Of course the light won't come on, turkey, you turned off the power."

He turned his attention to the freezer side as he thoughtfully finished off a three-quarters emptied milk bottle. (He couldn't risk it going bad.) He also helped himself to some of the leftover pizza.

"Ah ha!" he said and fetched out the basket from the icemaker. Then he looked around for some bananas. If there were any, his fuzzy vision couldn't spot them.

"Too bad, that would have been fun."

* * *

Bruce came up behind Alex so quietly, that the bald scientist almost assaulted him.

"Don't sneak up on me like that," Alex complained.

"Sorry, it's becoming a habit to sneak around in this house."

Bruce held up the canister he brought from his lab. "I think that this might help."

Alex read the label. "It might prove useful to my plan. But hopefully we won't need it."

* * *

Buddy had to pause before making his way to the computer room. The delay made him itchy, but he couldn't afford to proceed before he could see clearly. He entered the computer room cautiously. Empty. He paused in the entry with his ice box, then set the empty box on the console. He gave the computer a dirty look and muttered "Tattletale." as he passed it and opened the door to the subway.

There was a man wearing yet another mask (actually, half a mask) in the opening.

"Not again!" Buddy checked out the other door, sure enough, fish face was there.

"Don't try anything . . ." the half-mask said as Buddy hit the door switch again.

The door started to slam in Hondo's face.

"Blaster, Fire!"

Matt, protected by his mask, and forewarned at that, wasn't bothered by the sight of the awesome blast. But Buddy, with no protection at all, could only cower back as the 8 by 12 foot, three inch steel door dissolved in a blast of intense light.

Hondo came in cautiously as Buddy crouched next to the computer, arms over his head, waiting to die.

"He told you not to try anything," Matt said mildly, undisturbed by the sight of his wall disappearing. "Now maybe we'll get some answers."

As he spoke, he entered the room and promptly slipped and fell on the ice cubes that Buddy had placed there for just such a contingency.

"Matt!" cried Hondo. He turned towards his fallen leader.

"Never mind me, stop him !" Matt exclaimed, indicating the departing burglar.

Blaster's next shot cut in front of Buddy and dissolved the waiting motorcycle. Buddy figured he was to be next so he changed direction abruptly. He back-flipped toward the hall door, bounced off Matt's liver, grabbed the now breathless MASK leader in a strangle hold and heaved him to his feet.

"Whoa, take it easy now," Hondo said in his best "talk the knife out of the student's hand" voice and spread his hands out, palms down, in a calming motion.

"Good advice, let's make a deal, you take off your mask and let me pass, and I won't break this dude's neck."

Buddy backed up cautiously, half strangulating Matt in the process. He didn't seriously expect the man to bargain. However, he hoped to buy a few moments to get clear. He checked the hall and didn't see the other man. ("Men? Is this just a new mask or an entirely new player? How many of these turkeys are there anyway? How do I get myself into these things?")

Suddenly, Buddy was assaulted from below the belt. He looked down in astonishment to see Scott Trakker beating at him furiously.

"You let my father go, you creep!" cried his diminutive assailant.

"Huh?" was Buddy's brilliant reply.

Feeling his assailant loosen his grip, Matt squirmed around and launched his elbow. With a frantic twist, Buddy managed to catch the blow on his ribs, rather than in the pit of his stomach where it had been aimed.

It still threw him off balance and caused him to release his captive. Scott immediately hit the teetering burglar with a tackle that did football coach Hondo's heart proud. Buddy went down with a word that Scott suspected that he oughtn't use. Hondo leaped forward to help, slipped on the ice cubes and plowed into Matt. Matt heard Buddy scramble to his feet and focused in that direction.

"Ultra-flash, ON!"

Buddy ducked away from the light. Alex and Bruce, however, caught the full effect of the ray as they came up to implement their part of the plan. Their masks protected them from most of the blast, but they were startled enough to let Buddy get past them and dodge down the hall.

There was a few minutes of disgusted silence before Scott spoke up.

"Dad? Are you all right?"

"I think so," Matt said, rubbing his sore elbow. "That guy's inhuman! Doesn't he ever get tired?" Matt complained.

* * *

Buddy ducked into a cubbyhole and tried to catch his breath.

"Man, don't those dudes ever get tired?" he complained as he rubbed his sore ribs. "This is inhuman!"

There was one trick left for him to try. It was rather desperate, no, make that extremely desperate. But he couldn't keep this up all night. And if they were going to ring in extra men, he was going to bring up the heavy artillery.

* * *

"Man, this joker sounds like the Boogey Man!" Hondo exclaimed as Matt and Scott filled him in on the night's entertainment.

"To be sure!" said Alex from where he and Bruce were setting up booby trap No. 1 in the computer room.

"There's no such thing as the Boogey Man," Scott said loftily, having just learned that fact last year.

"I'm starting to wonder about that," said Matt. "But in any case, we'll all be hip deep in recycled food products if we don't catch this guy, and soon. He's bound to find a way out of here before long."

"Don't you have any faith in your defenses, old boy?" Alex asked in astonishment.

"Not as much as I did this morning."

* * *

"I think the time has come to get the blazes out of here," Hawks told himself. "Ahh, I knew a place this size had to come equipped with a john. Now what have we got in here?"

"Lysol? perfect. What else have we got here?"

Happily he went digging up every can he could find that said: "Warning, contents under pressure, do not use or store near heat or open flame."

* * *

Hondo was making a production out of "sneaking" through the house. Since the Boogey Man had tried to grab the masks earlier, he might be tempted to go for Blaster. At least, that was Matt's theory.

Matt and Bruce flanked Hondo with considerably less noise. They were carrying specially charged fire extinguishers and were planting computer links to replace the disabled alarms as they went. Alex bugged the stairways the same way and was paralleling Hondo's course on the second floor, likewise armed with a fire extinguisher. Scott was in the computer room, keeping an eye on the computer readouts and wishing that he wasn't too young for this kind of thing. A bleep from the console caught his eye.

"Dad, there's something weird going on in the music room."

It made sense. The music room with its floor to ceiling windows seemed a likely place to try a breakout.

* * *

Buddy was setting his incendiary surprise near the windows, when he remembered the kid that had attacked him. He hesitated with the lighter in his hand.

"I can't risk the kid getting hurt if this thing gets out of hand."

He tried to reassure himself that if the kid was still with Trakker, then he'd be all right. But the nagging thought that there might be other children around kept cropping up. Trakker had only one. But who knew about the others? He wasn't even sure if his homemade bomb would get him out. Terrible to burn everyone to death for no reason.

He growled to himself and scanned the room again. There was a fireplace there, but the grill in the flue was impassable.

"Hmm, I wonder if Trakker has some sort of automatic fire escape system. Maybe if I generate enough smoke, I can crack this place without endangering any attack-trained rug rats."

He began to transfer flammable items to the fireplace when he heard somebody try to sneak into the next room. A discrete check revealed it to be the black dude with the blasting mask. That would certainly get him outside. Without hesitating long enough to consider it might be a trap, he slipped the cigarette lighter up his sleeve, grabbed a handy curtain from his firebomb, flung it over the black man and jumped.

Hondo went down flailing wildly. Even if Blaster had been operational, he couldn't have gotten a shot off. Then, as per Matt's instructions, he went limp. Buddy bounced to his feet, tugging the curtain with his left hand, his right hand clenched into a fist. He was almost too preoccupied to notice the entrance of Matt and Bruce. Almost, but not quite.

He whirled around to meet them just as Alex came through the ceiling, all three immediately opened fire with their fire extinguishers. The combined sprays knocked Buddy to the ground.

Hondo dug himself out of the curtain to see Buddy squirming helplessly on the floor. Bruce's experimental foam may have been a flop as a fire extinguisher, but it made great super glue.

Matt took out his fingerprint kit and approached his captive.

"Well, now, let's see whose little boy you are."

The look the captive gave him should have melted steel. Matt was very glad this tiger was in a net.

* * *

The computer took an extremely long time for it to come up with an answer.

"Fingerprints do not correspond to any person on file."

"I don't believe this, he's got to be in there somewhere," Hondo said in bewilderment.

"It's entirely possible that this Venom group could have the knowledge to remove their fingerprints from all computer files. Remember, Mayhem doesn't seen to have any other name." Alex said thoughtfully.

"Now that we have the tiger, how do we intend to cage it? No net lasts forever."

Alex sighed noisily. "Bruce, it's been a long night, would you kindly restrict yourself to English?"

"He means we can't leave him glued to the floor," Scott translated gleefully, happy that he understood something that Alex did not.

Alex just looked down his nose at him without saying anything.

* * *

Buddy soon realized that squirming was not getting him anywhere. Neither was cussing, although cussing made him feel a little better. He slipped the lighter back into his hand. Ignoring a mental image of barbecued Buddy, he applied the flame to his bonds. Thankfully, they did not catch fire, even more thankfully, they began to soften under the heat. He hoped they were loosening fast enough.

* * *

Matt was tired. He hurt all over. And he was still in the woods.

"When the hound is out of options, it may be wise to call the lion."

"You're right Bruce, it is time to call the authorities, but which ones? We started this whole thing because there weren't any agencies able to handle Venom."

"The Peaceful Nations Alliance is set up to handle international crises, and I think that Venom certainly fits that category," Alex said.

"Could be. Duane Kennedy is head of security for the PNA," Matt said thoughtfully. "I've met him enough times that I think he would listen to me. I'll give him a ring when he gets to his office."

"Are we going to leave the burglar glued to the floor until morning?" Scott asked, somewhat sleepily. "And what about the security?"

The computer interrupted before anyone could answer.

"Alert! Smoke detected in the vicinity of the prisoner."

"Oh, give me a break!" Matt moaned as they went charging out the door.

* * *

Buddy had accidently set his jacket smoldering in his attempt to get free,. It did help to loosen the bonds, and the goop itself prevented Buddy from being charbroiled in the process. He pulled free just as the four MASK agents burst into the room.

"Ah, gimme a break!"

Bruce was first in and Buddy, having great respect for that lifting mask of his, charged him head on, knocking the smaller man into the wall.

Hawks was on his last legs, but he wasn't about to let them see him falter. Whirling, he lashed out at Alex with a savate kick that winded the scientist before he could "Penetrator On." Hawks continued around in a circle and his next kick caught Bruce as he bounced off the wall and threw the inventor into Matt, stunning them both.

Hondo, distaining any further use of fancy gadgets, entered the room with a flying leap and hit Buddy with a tackle that did football player Scott's heart good.

Buddy slammed back first into the metal shutter that closed off the room from the safety outside. Hondo got to his feet and Buddy hit him back with a credible tackle. The two men went rolling on the floor and the larger Hondo wound up on top. Hondo twisted and tried to get a hammerlock on the squirming mass of fury beneath him. Alex leaped forward and grabbed one of Hawks' arms and applied torsion.

Hawks yelped and grabbed Alex's hand and rolled over, pulling Alex on top of Hondo. Then Buddy drew his knees up and managed to kick both of them away from him.

He scrambled to his hands and knees and Bruce leaped onto his back. Buddy stood up, stooped over, grabbed the Japanese inventor by the shoulders and flung him on top of Alex and Hondo.

Matt stepped up with a ceramic vase he had picked up from an end table, and broke it over Buddy Hawks' head. Buddy dropped to the carpet without a sound.

Matt glared at the burglar, breathing heavily and looking as though he wanted to bash him again, for good measure.

"Dad!"

Matt looked around in surprise, and became civilized again. "Scott! Didn't I tell you to stay put?"

"No," Scott answered truthfully.

"Oh."

* * *

Alex, Bruce, and Hondo got to their feet and looked at the intruder in astonishment. It seemed unreal, somehow, that a simple blow to the head could put him out of commission.

"Is he dead?" Scott asked, with a sort of horrified fascination.

Matt pulled his mask off, feeling like he was going to be sick. "God, I hope not."

Alex checked. "No, merely knocked out. I doubt that vase was heavy enough to do any serious damage."

The invader stirred and groaned as if to confirm the diagnosis.

"We'd better arrange for a doctor when we get hold of Kennedy," Alex went on. "But in the meantime, we need someplace to keep him."

"How about in the vault?" Scott suggested.

"That's sounds reasonable," Matt agreed. "And let's tie him up just to be safe. Duane should be in his office soon. It's already daylight on the East Coast. I hate to be a party poop, guys, but I want some sleep."

"It is always a good idea to declaw the tiger before caging him," Bruce pointed out.

"It's also a good idea to speak in English," complained Alex. "Let's search this blighter before we do anything else with him."

"That's what Bruce said," Matt translated mildly.

"No he didn't. He's blithering about tigers again!"

A thorough search turned up all sorts of interesting burglar tools, but no identification, and no weapons.

"No weapons? I say, that is most peculiar," Alex said thoughtfully, as Hondo and Matt tied up their moaning guest. "I'd think the museum raiders would be well armed."

Matt shook his head wearily. "This is beyond me guys, I don't even want to think about this again before breakfast."

The put the invader in the room where Matt kept his household funds and his blueprints. Since Hondo was the only one who had gotten any sleep that night, he volunteered to keep watch. They figured that ought to hold the burglar until reinforcements arrived.

They figured wrong.

**In the next installment:**

**A great escape, a dramatic revelation,**

**more blithering about tigers,**

**and Buddy Hawks finally stays "got."**


	6. Buddy System 3

**The Origin of MASK**

**Chapter 6: The Buddy System, Part 3**

**By Jelsemium and/or Qweb**

Later that morning, Alex brought a tray of food to where Hondo was guarding an apparently blank wall.

"Thanks," Hondo said. "Get enough sleep last night?"

"It will have to suffice for now," Alex said drily. "I doubt we'll get any more until this afternoon. Bruce and I are going to check out our friend's room at the motel. Unless you would rather go?"

"No thanks, I'll let you explain things to his friends, if any."

"Is he awake?"

A quick check revealed the burglar was still out of it.

"Have fun," Hondo said, almost cheerfully.

"Don't let the bedbugs bite," Alex advised.

* * *

The sound of the door shutting penetrated Buddy's half asleep mind and he reluctantly faded in with a groan. He squirmed around a little, even though he knew darn well he was tied up. Fortunately, whoever had tied him up was a novice at the art of bondage. It didn't take him long to free himself.

"Why didn't they just kill me? I don't understand these dudes at all. They sure don't act like… "

Then he remembered what he'd overheard when he was half-conscious.

"Man, this is weird. I gotta get outa here."

He looked around the room, and deduced where he was.

"I'll just bet the computer access code's in this vault somewhere."

It was a "safe" bet.

* * *

Alex and Bruce returned from their early morning excursion to find Matt on hold on the phone.

Matt looked up as they entered.

"Anything?"

"Not a thing, unless you want an extra copy of that rèsumè, or some spare underwear, or a used thermos filled with stale water," Alex reported glumly.

Matt suddenly turned back to the phone.

"Yes, this is Matt Trakker, and I'm trying to get in touch with Duane Kennedy … Yes, that Duane Kennedy … Yes, I'll hold."

* * *

Buddy Hawks artistically draped himself with the loose ropes. He estimated how loud he needed to get in order to be heard on the other side of the vault. The door was thick, but there was a ventilation shaft in a strategic location. He went into his patented 'drowning out of water' act. Sure enough, the fella with the blaster mask came in to investigate…

* * *

Duane Kennedy turned out to be in Los Angeles when Matt finally got hold of him on the phone. He managed to not laugh in Matt Trakker's face, or even in his ear, when Matt explained what they had been up to, with the Venom research and the fight of the century in Trakker's home.

"This is serious, Duane," Matt said earnestly.

"I know, Matt," Kennedy said soothingly. "I realized that the first time I heard about this high-tech, international terrorist group."

"You know about them?" Matt asked in surprise.

"Of course, it's part of our job to know about these things. But you have come up with more concrete facts than our agents have, so far."

Matt felt a little deflated, like King Arthur going out to slay a dragon only to find that Merlin had turned it into a mosquito.

"How do you plan to handle them?" He asked, thinking to volunteer his services.

"There's not much we can do."

"WHAT!"

"Matt, you have to understand, the PNA doesn't have a tax base. Our funding comes from our member countries, and donations. We do as much as we can with what we have, investigative work, security checks, and so forth. But, frustrating as it is, we don't have the money to act on any of our findings. We can only try to coordinate the efforts of the law enforcement agencies of our members."

"I see," said Matt. "I think we have solutions to each other's dilemmas."

"I certainly hope so, I'll be at your place within the hour, and I'll bring some guards along with me."

"Good, could you bring a doctor as well? I got a little carried away in the subduing department."

"I think that can be arranged."

* * *

Matt hung up and joined the rest of the family in the kitchen as they were fixing breakfast.

A sudden clattering noise surprised no one as a trash can shaped robot yawned and clanked his way in amongst their midst.

"Morning, T-Bob," Scott said cheerfully as he set the table.

"Good morning, Scott, Matt, Alex, Bruce," T-Bob squeaked politely. "My, you were up early today, Scott. Or did your midnight snack last all night?"

"Nah, I never even got a chance to eat it, what with chasing after the burglar and all," Scott said.

"Bur…bur…BURGLAR!" T-Bob dithered, his head cover springing up and down like a deranged jack in the box. The tubby little robot spun around in little circles until he collided with a wall.

"Take it easy, T-Bob," Matt cautioned, "You'll break a circuit or something."

"How can you be so calm about… oh, I get it, it was a joke, right?" T-Bob looked at his creator hopefully. "There wasn't really a burglar, was there?"

"I'm afraid there was, T-Bob," Scott said, not sounding very sorry. "Hey! Where'd the leftover pizza go?"

T-Bob was not to be side-trakked. "Bu… bu… but shouldn't we be doing something about the bu… bur…"

"It's already taken care of old chap," Alex said soothingly. "He locked up all neat and tidy in the money vault. You can go up and see for yourself, after breakfast."

"N…n…no thanks, this is as close to a burglar as I ever want to get!"

When the human diners finished laughing, Matt said, "speaking of breakfast, has anyone taken anything to Hondo, and checked the catch of the day?"

"I did," said Alex, as he deftly grated potatoes. "And I'll check again as soon as I have eaten."

"I'll fix the eggs and bacon…" began Bruce.

"Matt, you take care of the toast," Alex interrupted, fearing that Bruce had another aphorism on the tip of his tongue.

Bruce, who had an aphorism on the tip of his tongue, looked surprised, then amused as he started cooking the bacon and eggs.

Matt started the toast, helped himself to a cup of coffee, and looked at his son with amusement. "Lose something, Scott?"

"My breakfast pizza."

"Worry about that later, besides, you need a healthier breakfast," Matt said.

Scott sighed. "Hey, the milk bottle is empty!" he added indignantly.

"And whose fault is that?" Matt asked mildly.

Scott protested his innocence half heartedly, not sure if he was guilty or not.

"Fetch me the orange juice, will you, Scott?" Alex requested.

Scott looked in the well searched refrigerator.

"It's not here, either."

"Are you sure?" Alex asked in surprise. "It was there when I fixed Hondo's breakfast."

"Well, it's not here now."

"Hmm, maybe I left it with Hondo."

"There's more in the freezer," said Matt. "Mix some up in the lemonade pitcher, Scott."

* * *

They were finishing breakfast when the doorbell rang.

Matt opened the door to see a tall, somewhat overweight politician type standing there with four armed guards in attendance. There were two limousines parked in the driveway.

"Duane, so good of you to come."

Sandy haired Duane Kennedy grinned wryly at the conventional pleasantry, then the worry lines returned to his high forehead.

"The pleasure's all mine, especially if you can help with my 'venomous' problem. But first let us see this burglar of yours."

"This way," Matt said. "Where's the doctor?"

"He'll be along in a short while."

Trakker escorted Kennedy and his four armed guards to the vault, followed by everyone in the house except T-Bob, who elected to remain in the kitchen. And, of course Hondo McLean, who was in the vault, tied up with some ropes that had been lying around handy at the time. The burglar was obviously not there.

"I'm sorry, Matt," Hondo said as he was unbound. "I should have suspected a trick." He touched the side of his jaw, which was turning a rather interesting shade of blue-green.

"That's okay, Hondo, it's not your fault."

"But now we're sunk!" said Hondo despairingly.

"Maybe not, he may still be on the grounds," Matt said.

A search revealed that there was nobody in the house.

"He must have escaped through the computer room," said Alex. "He can't have gone far in the time he had."

"Yes he could. I left Firecracker parked there!" Hondo moaned. he put his back against the wall and slid to a sitting position. "We're in for it now!"

"Duane, could you have your guards check the grounds while we check the computer room?"

"Certainly," said Duane, and sent the men outside.

Matt looked at the teacher in concern, "Hondo, are you all right?"

"No."

"Why don't you go lie down awhile?"

"That sounds like an excellent idea," Hondo replied, and departed upstairs with an icepack.

"So, where's this top secret computer that you don't even want my pet bodyguards to see?"

Matt escorted Duane to the computer, trailed by the other two would-be MASK agents and Scott. He opened the door and found the burglar.

* * *

He was sprawled comfortably in the chair in front of console with the half empty bottle of orange juice, the remains of Scott's pizza and an empty package of Oreos.

The smug-as-a-cat burglar stretched casually as they entered and said:

"Oh, good morning, Duane."

"HAWKS ?! What in blue thunder are you doing here?"

Hawks shrugged "Barking up the wrong tree, I guess."

"You two know each other?" Alex asked, aghast.

Duane sighed heavily, "Gentlemen, this is my agent Hawks, the one who's been investigating the museum robbers for the PNA."

"You thought we were the museum raiders?" Matt asked incredulously.

Hawks looked at him defensively, "Well, you were gathering information on all the places that had been hit, you broke into every law enforcement computer in the PNA, you've been collecting enough high tech weaponry to start an army, and you have a flying car that's armed with laser cannons. What was I supposed to think? That you were starting up a new Boy Scout troop?"

Matt, Alex, Bruce and Scott looked at each other. Before they could start laughing, however, Duane broke in.

"Hawks! how dare you break into private property?" demanded an outraged Security Chief Kennedy.

Hawks swung to his feet, wincing a little as he straightened up.

"I was just doing my jo…"

"Oh, no you weren't! Your job does NOT entail breaking and entering without a warrant. You've grossly over stepped your authority," Kennedy paused, then added acidly, "as usual."

Kennedy turned to Matt, "I'm terribly sorry about this, Matt. I assure you he will be severely disciplined."

Buddy pulled himself to his full height and started to say something.

"Not another word, Hawks."

The doorbell rang again as the PNA doctor arrived. He checked everyone out, and ordered Hawks to the hospital for skull X-rays.

"Makes sense," Buddy grumbled. "I was beginning to think I needed my head examined."

Duane shook his head as his man departed. "Excuse me while I dismiss the guards."

He returned in a few minutes.

"Where will they go?"

"Back to the airport, we came in separate planes."

"No fraternizing with the hired help?"

Duane gave him a blank look. "No, it's just that I thought I might need one to transport the prisoner."

"Who turned out to be one of your agents in the first place."

Duane blushed, "I terribly sorry about that, Matt," he said again. "I can understand you being upset. Hawks is a good man, really." Duane shook his head sadly, "But he just has to jump into the water head first, no matter how deep or hot it may be."

Matt made soothing gestures. "Calm down, Duane, I'm not upset. It's not your fault. In fact, I don't think it was your agent's fault either. Like he said, what was he supposed to think? I was so worried about Venom's actions being so suspicious, I never even considered how mine might look."

Bruce added his two cents, "And the bait that attracts the tiger may also arouse the curiosity of the jackal."

"Huh?" said Duane.

"Don't look at me," said Alex, returning from shutting off the security system and opening the shutters. "I just work here."

"He means that if my actions attracted the PNA, they might attract Venom as well," Matt translated.

"I see, well tell me more about this, I suppose you'd call it 'Anti-venom' program of yours."

Matt, Alex and Bruce looked at Duane sharply. There was the barest hint of a twinkle in the man's eyes. And just when they were becoming convinced that he had no sense of humor.

"Actually, we call ourselves MASK," Matt said.

"MASK?"

"For our weapons," Matt showed him Ultra-flash and Bruce put on Lifter and looked at the couch of the living room as they entered it.

"Lifter, on."

The little rings of light entrapped the couch and Bruce brought it over to where they were standing.

"Good Lord!" Duane exclaimed, jumping back a pace.

"We thought a little sauce for the goose might be in order," Matt said.

"Wonderful, now's he's doing it," Alex moaned. "I'm going to have to program T-Bob to translate everything for me."

Matt laughed. "Sorry, Alex." He turned to Duane "What I meant was, if Venom is going to use high tech, so must we."

"It's a good idea, but the PNA's budget won't run to this sort of thing."

"I understand that," Matt explained, "which is what I was saying about us solving each other's dilemma. You have the authority, but not the equipment. We have the equipment, but no authority. We could physically handle Venom. But if we constantly have to fend off the authorities as well, we won't get very far. If you could somehow deputize us or something, we wouldn't have to worry about that."

"Where would the money be coming from?"

"From me, it's my game."

"But even you don't have a bottomless purse, or do you mean to give up your charities?"

"Of course not, for one thing, that would be too conspicuous. True, my resources aren't without limits, but a lot of this gear is made from developments that are already on my drawing boards. I also have the volunteer services of my colleagues." Here he paused and gestured to Bruce and Alex. "I also expect to get more volunteer fighters, with their own areas of expertise."

"But why? You have so much to lose, why risk it all on something that's not your fight?"

"It became my fight the minute Mayhem and his bunch dragged my company into it. Besides, all my charity work, as you call it, is to make this planet a better place for my son to live on. I'm not about to see Venom and their ilk mess it up."

"As you wish, I'll see what I can do." He hesitated. "I can't promise anything, but I may be able to assist with the funding, at least somewhat. Wouldn't want you to go bankrupt fighting our battles for us … besides, it would look suspicious."

* * *

The next morning, Buddy Hawks was discharged from the hospital. He looked around the reception room a trifle sourly, wondering if Kennedy was going to make good his threat to make him pay his own way back home.

He also wondered if he dared hang around and hint for an invitation to Trakker's team, or if it would be more politic to allow a cooling off period first.

"Need a lift?"

He turned in surprise to see both Trakkers and an ambulatory ashtray waiting for him.

"What are you doing here?" Buddy asked, outwardly peevish, but inwardly hopeful. "I couldn't have put you in the hospital, Duane would have strangled me with my own I.V. if I had."

"No, no, nothing that dramatic," Matt said. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right, and see if you needed help paying the bill."

Hawks rubbed the lump on the back of his head.

"I'm okay, I've been hit harder. And my insurance will take care of the bill. Lord knows I've made my deductible for the year." He started to shake his head ruefully, then thought better of the gesture.

"I see, well," Matt paused then continued, "There must be something I can do for you."

"Do you know where Kennedy is?"

"He left for New York last night, I'm afraid," Matt apologized. "If you need transportation, I can arrange something, I'm sure."

"Why all the hospitality?" Buddy wanted to know.

"Well, my actions did lead you to my house and my vase," Matt said mildly, wondering if he ought to approach Hawks about joining MASK, or if he should allow a cooling off period first. Hawks still looked rather bilious.

Matt postponed the decision for the moment.

"Why don't we discuss this over breakfast?" he asked in sudden inspiration.

Lured by his stomach, Hawks climbed into Thunderhawk.

"By the way, just to get formal, I'm Matt Trakker. This is my son Scott, and Scott's robot, T-Bob."

"Hawks, Buddy Hawks."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, I was beginning to think that you didn't have a name."

"Buddy?! That hardly sounds like the name of an international spy to me," T-Bob squeaked up from the back seat.

Buddy looked around at the sound of his name and was taken aback to be insulted by an ash can.

"You talk!" he said accusingly.

"Of course," T-Bob squeaked with dignity. "I also convert into a motor scooter."

"Oh, really? Can you microwave pizza?" Buddy said sarcastically.

Having put T-Bob in his place, Buddy turned back to Matt.

"Of course I have a name," the spy said loftily. "In fact I have lots of names."

"I guess a lot of aliases would be useful in your line of work."

"Most of 'em aren't exactly aliases."

"How'd that happen?" Matt asked.

Buddy shrugged, "It's a boring story."

Matt gave his now invited guest a sideways glance.

"I'd like to hear it."

"Well . . ."

"I could get Duane off your back, if you make it worth my while," Matt bribed.

Buddy laughed. "If you insist. It's the result of being raised in about a dozen different foster homes, plus a bunch of hospitals, orphanages, shelters, boarding schools and summer camps, not to mention good old juvie hall, each with a different name for me.

"In juvie hall? You mean juvenile hall?" T-Bob asked in surprise. "That sounds awful, why'd they put you in jail?"

Hawks shrugged again. "A lot of kids get sent there when the authorities haven't got anyplace else to put them. It wasn't all that bad, though. For one thing, it convinced me that I didn't want to go in for a life of crime."

"Don't like being caged up?" Matt asked.

Buddy shook his head in spite of himself. "The food's even worse than a hospital's."

Matt laughed, "Well, my cooking isn't the world's best, but I can guarantee that it's better than that!"

"What about your parents?" Scott asked, "What happened to them?"

"I don't know anything about my parents," Buddy sighed. Even with all his investigative training he'd never found any information on them. "I've never even met anyone who'd ever seen them. I was told I was found in the parking lot of some supermarket."

"It sounds like you had a tough life," Scott said with sympathy.

Buddy tossed his right hand back, as if to toss away the notion. "It wasn't so bad. Since I spent so much of my life being bounced around so much, I always knew things were going to get better."

"A born optimist," Matt said humorously, but with a trace of admiration.

"Yep, but I always called it the Buddy System," Hawks said slyly.

"Ouch."

Scott interrupted with the question paramount in his mind, "How'd you become a spy?"

Buddy spread his hands out, palms up. "When you're caught on the borderline of poverty, you can get a scholarship, which my tangled up school records would have prevented, even if I'd been any great shakes in school. Or you become a great athlete, which I wasn't interested in, and I'd already written off crime."

Buddy allowed himself to go off on a sidetrack. "Too bad, in a way, I'd have given cat burglars back some class." He looked out the window with a wistful expression on his face, then twisted around so he could look at both Matt and Scott and got back to business.

"Those of us who didn't take those choices went into the military." He waved his hand forward in a "charge" motion as he spoke. Matt was beginning to get the idea that a lot of Buddy's conversation was in body language.

"As a spy?" Scott asked eagerly.

"No, as a mechanic," Buddy grinned at the crestfallen boy.

"So, that bit about being a great mechanic wasn't just part of your cover?"

"Of course not, I always stick to the truth when I can. It makes the lies sound so much more real."

"Then what? Matt asked.

"Well, my ASVAB scores…"

"As who?" Scott interrupted.

"ASVAB, Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery. It's the I.Q. test the army gives everyone who joins," Buddy explained. "Anyways, my score was higher than the powers- that-be expected, and they thought that I might have an aptitude for intelligence work. So they made me an offer that my snoopy self couldn't refuse."

"Why'd you leave the army and join the PNA?"

Buddy looked at Matt curiously, "Is this a job interview or something?"

Matt smiled blandly "Or something."

Buddy slouched down in his seat happily, maybe he wasn't going to have to beg for a job after all.

"The army pries too much into your private life and the PNA was the only civilian agency that would have me."

"Why not?" Scott broke in once more. "You're a great spy."

Buddy grinned at that one.

"Not enough education. Besides, I did get caught."

"But you also got away," Matt pointed out. "And you got the information you wanted. My organization could use someone with your talents."

"I'll think about it."

Matt grin was pure mischief, a quick look around told him everybody was buckled up. "While you're thinking, I'll take a short cut."

He slammed the gear shift all the way forward and the conversions that Bruce had finished tutoring him on took place, the gull wing doors popped open the spoiler sprang into place, and the sports car leaped skyward.

"What the…" Hawks blurted, sitting bolt upright and bracing himself against the dashboard. Knowing the car could fly and flying in it were two different things.

"All right!" cheered Scott.

T-Bob fainted.

"C'mon," Matt laughed, "you've been hoping for a job offer, or you'd have never told us so much about yourself without truth serum and rubber hoses."

"What's the pay like?"

"Well, the MASK agents would be more or less volunteers, though I would pay for expenses and time lost. You would be full time, however, taking care of the vehicles and maintaining the gas station cover. I'll top your current salary and throw in a better benefit package. Not to mention fewer rules to entangle you, nobody prying into your privacy, plus the ultimate skeleton key."

"You mean that green mask that went through the walls?"

"Exactly."

"I almost tossed my cookies when I got hit with that one," Buddy complained.

"I'm working on that bug right now," Matt said.

The idea of being able to walk through walls was enough to make Buddy drool. But still he balked.

He frowned thoughtfully, ignoring the sounds of Scott reviving T-Bob in the back, and not even hearing T-Bob's complaints about "If robots were meant to fly, they'd have interfaces with airline computers."

"Do the others approve or do they plan to lynch me if I show my face again?"

"They had some reservations…" Matt began.

"Meaning they got on your case about it," Buddy interpeted freely.

"From lunch time 'til bed time," Scott confirmed.

"But my calm, skillful leadership brought them around to my point of view," Matt said airily.

"You threw a bigger tantrum than they did," Buddy guessed.

Matt's glare into the back seat kept Scott and T-Bob silent, but when Buddy looked back at them, they both nodded vigorously, even though Matt's version was closer to the truth.

"What do you expect from me?"

"I expect you to use your mechanical skills to keep our fancy vehicles moving, and your snooping skills to keep us informed and your anti-social skills to keep people from hanging around the Boulder Hill gas station."

"Anti-social skills?" Buddy put on his best choirboy expression. "What makes you think I'm anti-social."

"I talked to Duane about you."

"Oh."

Matt laughed at his deflated expression.

"You could also teach us how to tie people up so they stay tied up."

Scott bounced up and down in excitement.

"And you can teach me all about being a spy, and… and… you can teach T-Bob how to microwave pizza!"

The belly laugh started up Buddy's headache again, but he couldn't stop it.

"How can I refuse an offer like that!" he chortled.

"Then you're in?"

"Yessir, Mr. Trakker, sir !" Buddy exclaimed happily as Thunderhawk made a four point landing in the mansion's driveway.

"We're informal here," Matt informed his new employee. "You only have to use one sir."

Buddy threw him a mock salute as the elder Trakker led the way to the door and held it open.

"By the way, Buddy…" Trakker began as they went inside.

"Yes?"

"Were you ever a Boy Scout?"

* * *

**In the next installment:**

**Matt gets an "E" ticket ride in a pizza truck**

**and Venom learns that "Fast Food"**

**can be hazardous to your health.**


	7. Fast Food 1

**The Origin of MASK**

**Chapter 7: Fast Food, Part 1**

**By Qweb and/or Jelsemium**

Matt Trakker fled for his life, in virtually the opposite direction from the armored, flying car that could so easily have saved him.

The usually blond inventor clutched his briefcase under his arm like a football and ran, head down at full tilt, pursued by the soft purple sports car known as Manta, which was driven by the hard, red-haired killer known as Vanessa Warfield. Overhead he could hear the ominous beat of Switchblade's rotors as helicopter pilot and criminal genius Miles Mayhem served as spotter for his band of villains, the international organization of evil known as Venom.

Matt cursed the luck that let the Venom agents get between him and the car they couldn't possibly know was a deadly weapon. The car they probably didn't even know was his, come to think of it.

He cursed himself, too, for walking straight into their trap. He'd thought he was being so clever. But he'd thought that before, hadn't he?

Him, Matt Trakker, inventor, philanthropist, benefactor of mankind, loving father, total moron!

He'd discovered the worldwide activities of Venom almost by accident when they stole a toy from Bruce Sato and sold it to Trakker Toys. Bruce had traced the toy to Trakker, and Trakker had traced it to Venom, learning about the scope of Venom's criminal enterprise in the process.

Matt had realized there was no law enforcement agency in the world capable of handling the high tech battle masks and the shape shifting combat vehicles Venom used to enforce their will on the innocent. Trakker swore to fight them, to create his own masks and his own vehicles to defeat Venom on their own terms. He thought he'd been discreet as he collected the information, materials, weapons and men he needed to form MASK, the Mobile Armored Strike "K"ommand.

But only a few days ago, intelligence agent Buddy Hawks had penetrated the MASK Headquarters' security and led Matt and his friends — Bruce, Alex Sector and Hondo MacLean — on a merry chase through the Trakker mansion, before they all finally realized they were on the same side. Buddy had become suspicious of Trakker's intelligence gathering, proving he hadn't concealed his trail as well as he'd thought.

Still, that incident had turned out to be some more of the serendipity that Alex claimed was proof that MASK was destined to exist. It had brought them formal recognition by the Peaceful Nations Alliance, Buddy's former employer. And it had brought them Buddy, master of disguise, expert at infiltration and top notch mechanic, to raise the number of MASK agents to five.

But Matt had thought it safer to come to Brubaker Industries in Los Angeles alone. He'd left — he thanked God he'd left — his son, Scott, at the Bonaventure Hotel with Bruce, while he took Thunderhawk to pick up a vital new MASK component, a frequency generator that could range through the entire electromagnetic spectrum from X-rays to radio waves, from lasers to ultrasound.

In addition to the flying car, whose weapons were now fully operational, Matt had taken his briefcase, which contained the computer link to MASK Headquarters in Nevada. He had figured he could use the computer to call Bruce for help if he needed it.

Now he knew he wasn't going to get the chance.

Trakker Enterprises had done business with Brubaker Industries and Matt knew they were creative enough and reliable enough to put together the component he'd designed. He wasn't personally known there, however, so he had no qualms about picking up the device ordered under a false name.

But when he came out, Venom was waiting for him.

What Matt couldn't know was that his peril was, perhaps, saving MASK from discovery. Mayhem had been on the point of checking out some mysterious goings on in Boulder Hill, Nevada, when he'd learned about a more interesting proposition.

His call for information on unusual weaponry components had brought a return call from a disgruntled technician at Brubaker. He had told Mayhem about the spectrum component, not much about it, just that it existed.

Security in the building had been too tight for even Venom to risk, not when they knew someone had to carry the device out of the lab. Mayhem had waited patiently in Los Angeles for the component to be moved. He was rewarded by a phone call from the same technician when Matt arrived.

It was fortunate that the technician didn't know who Matt was, even more fortunate that Matt had given in to Buddy Hawks' "melodramatics" and had worn the disguise the ex-intelligence agent had devised for him. It had allowed the famous man to walk among strangers unremarked, unrecognized by his public — and by Venom. It was the one good break he'd had in a day of bad ones.

When Matt walked out the door, he found that Sly Rax and Vanessa Warfield, faceless behind their masks, had blocked off the sidewalk, keeping him away from any of the cars on the street.

Behind them were Piranha, Rax's wicked looking black motorcycle with the streamlined sidecar that separated to form a car or a submarine; and Manta, Vanessa's flying sports car. Switchblade thundered overhead.

"Hand over that briefcase!" roared Mayhem's voice from above.

Matt tried to retreat inside, but the energy whip from Vanessa's mask lashed toward him. He ducked, rolling out of the way, and the bolt smashed the thick plastic doors to rubble.

Matt leaped to his feet and ran.

Behind him, he heard a powerful roar as the Venom vehicles were started. In front of him he saw the black Bronco, Jackhammer, charging forward, lasers blasting.

Matt darted around a corner. Then the corner wasn't there any more as a laser hit disintegrated it.

"Stop it, you fool!" Mayhem roared over the radio. "You might damage the component."

"Sorry, boss," replied Dagger in contrition.

He'd forgotten his instructions again. Dagger frowned behind the blank-eyed Torch mask that covered his thick head and brawny shoulders. Then he smiled as he remembered. He could kill the man if he wanted to, but he wasn't supposed to take any chances on hurting the briefcase.

He threw Jackhammer into gear again and obediently followed Mayhem's directions to rejoin the action.

Matt dodged through the maze of streets and alleys, bowling over pedestrians who then had to scramble to get out of the way of Vanessa's single-minded pursuit. Matt hoped to lose her in his twists and turns, but Mayhem, flying overhead, kept her on the right track.

Heart pounding, Matt turned at random down a side street and found himself on a street mall. Pedestrians walked down the center of the blocked off street, browsing in shop windows. Patrons sat at an open-air cafe. Children frolicked in a small playground as their mothers rested their feet.

Matt hadn't meant to lure Venom into a large crowd, but it was too late.

Sturdy sawed-off telephone poles held an anchor chain across the road, barricading the pedestrian-only block. With casual disregard, Manta extended a buzz saw blade from its side and scored through the barrier without even slowing down. Laser blasts tore up the cobblestones around Matt's feet as a warning to stop; but he didn't.

The explosions sent shoppers scrambling for doorways, screaming in fear as the car rushed past.

Matt dashed around a corner, past a silvery pizza delivery truck standing at the curb. The deliveryman and his customer had frozen in the act of exchanging a large pizza for ready cash. Both looked open-mouthed in the direction of the screams.

As Matt pounded past, he caught a glimpse of the deliveryman's startled brown eyes. Then he was past, swerving across the street, leaving behind an impression of a hunted animal. The pizza driver wondered who was chasing him.

The customer's toddler saw the running man and laughed at the new game. He darted past his mother and into the street, as Vanessa took the corner on two wheels and roared after Matt.

The deliveryman dropped the pizza and threw himself into the path of the heedless car. He scooped up the child and rolled clear, feeling the car's passage tug at his hair and clothes.

Slowly he stood up, soothing the sobbing child absently as he frowned after the disappearing car. Then determination glinted in his eyes, as he handed the child to his tearful mother.

* * *

Matt was thinking if he could just duck his pursuit for a minute, he could call on Bruce and the heavily armed Firecracker pickup for help, when a dark form darted out of an alley, brushed against him, and threw him back against the wall.

Winded by the impact, Matt could only watch as Rax spun Piranha around in a tight circle to end up facing his prey from 20 feet away. The ominous form of Jackhammer idled down the alley to Matt's left, covering any escape to either side. Behind him, he would hear the all too familiar roar of Manta coming up slowly as Vanessa saw her quarry in Mayhem's neatly organized trap. Matt could almost hear Mayhem chuckle as he looked down from the helicopter.

Rax stepped off his cycle.

"Give me the briefcase," he demanded.

But Matt couldn't. It wasn't just the Spectrum component, which could make a deadly weapon in Venom's hands; there was also the computer link to consider. With that, Venom could finish MASK before it got started. They could track down Matt's friends and add the MASK weapons to their own arsenal.

Matt was exhausted, almost too weak to move another step, but he couldn't let Venom have the briefcase without a fight.

"If you want it, come and get it," he said calmly, hoping Rax would come close enough to be jumped.

Rax shrugged and didn't move an inch. He fingered the chest piece of his mask.

"It's your funeral," he said, and it was no figure of speech.

Matt realized Rax would just kill him from a safe distance and take the briefcase off his stiletto riddled body.

The inventor tried to ready himself to jump, forward, sideways, anywhere; but he hadn't the strength. He stood still, shuddering, panting, exhausted; but his head was held high.

Rax began the command to his mask, "Stiletto … "

Matt couldn't watch the Venom agent's obvious enjoyment. He closed his eyes and prayed for the safety of his soon to be orphaned son. Behind him, he heard a heavy engine roar toward him and wondered if Vanessa was jealous of Rax getting the kill. There was the sound of a collision, tires squealed, and then something brushed past his nose as Rax finished, " … Fire!"

There was no pain, just a sound like a handful of gravel hitting a tin roof and Matt found himself blinking at the quilted silver side of a pizza delivery truck that stood between him and the indignantly shouting Rax.

"Hey, fella, need a lift?" said a calm Texas voice as the passenger door swung open in invitation.

Matt found himself looking into the same brown eyes he'd seen earlier. The young man's face was concerned and friendly, but Matt hesitated, wondering if this was a Venom trap. He was unwilling to leap from the familiar frying pan into the unknown fire without at least looking first.

The pizza truck driver looked out his window and saw a dozen sharp spikes protruding from the side of his hand polished truck. He saw Rax leap back on his cycle and start the engine. In his rearview mirror, the young man could see Jackhammer start up and began rolling. He also knew that the purple car he'd sideswiped in his cavalry charge wouldn't stay stuck on the sidewalk for long.

All things considered, the Texan figured this wasn't time for niceties.

He reached out and clamped strong fingers around Matt's wrist.

"C'mon," he urged, pulling Matt aboard. "I know your mama prob'ly told you to never take rides from strangers, but you don't want to end up lookin' like a pincushion, do you?"

His logic was inescapable, as was his grip.

The truck leaped forward, dumping Matt on the passenger seat. The blond inventor strapped himself in hastily as the pizza truck swayed wildly, picking up speed, heading straight for the brick wall at the end of the alley.

Matt wondered if his rescuer was crazy. The alley was so narrow, the truck's side mirrors scraped sparks from trashcans as they banged past. Matt saw there was a T-shaped turn at the alley's far end, but it was so tight he couldn't imagine how the Texan could get the truck around it without backing and filling and allowing their pursuers to catch up.

But the Texan didn't seem worried about it. He just raced toward the wall full tilt, with Jackhammer on his heels.

At the last instant, the Texan hit the brakes, yanked the wheel and accelerated again, apparently all at once. The truck slewed sideways in the intersection as the front end stopped while the rear kept going. The turn was so nicely timed that the pizza truck's rear fender just kissed the brick wall before the delivery van was racing off at a right angle to its previous path. All without losing a second in the turn.

Jackhammer wasn't so lucky. With the pizza truck blocking his view, Dagger hadn't realized the wall was so close. When the Texan made the truck "disappear," Dagger didn't have time to stop.

A tremendous crash filled the alley with noise and debris.

Piranha slid sideways as Rax tried to avoid the intersection-blocking wreck. Manta left skid marks along half the alley and finally stopped with its nose just bumping Jackhammer's fender.

From above, Mayhem looked down on his balked allies as the pizza truck sped away free as a bird.

"Dagger, you idiot," he yelled unsympathetically. "Are you still alive?"

"I guess so," the big man replied unsteadily, picking his masked head off the dashboard. "Is it morning already?"

Mayhem snorted.

He ordered Vanessa to take Dagger in Manta, then he began to follow the pizza truck.

* * *

"That'll teach those owlhoots," the driver said with satisfaction, heading for the hills in true western tradition.

Matt looked in the rear view mirror and sighed.

"We're not out of the woods yet," he said, pointing out the helicopter, which swooped low toward them.

The young man whistled and rammed the accelerator down again, scooting out from under the chopper's thunderous pass.

"Whoo-wee! You sure got some high-powered enemies, mister," he said. "By the way, my name's Dusty Hayes."

The driver thrust one hand at Matt. The inventor took it quickly to get both Dusty's hands back on the wheel sooner.

"I'm Matt Trakker."

The truck swerved involuntarily, which was fortunate since it caused Switchblade's laser blast to hit wide of the mark.

Dusty stared at Matt in open-mouthed astonishment. Matt had to laugh as he removed his disguising cheek pads, dark wig, mustache and sideburns. The young man had taken pursuing thugs, attack helicopters and laser blasts in his stride; but the mere mention of the famous Trakker name threw him for a loop.

Amusement was blotted from Matt's face. Switchblade roared straight at the truck, trying to force it off the road. Matt flinched back as the black chopper filled the windshield.

Dusty whipped his attention back to the front, then slipped the truck to the side almost casually. The chopper surged past.

The Texan turned his gaze back to Matt.

"Matt Trakker," he breathed, as if he still didn't believe it. Then a broad grin crossed his expressive face. "Danged if you ain't, at that. I'm right pleased to meet you."

Matt was forced to shake the driver's hand again. He thanked Dusty for coming to his rescue.

The grin fled as suddenly as it came, as the driver saw Switchblade coming back for another pass. Dusty gritted his teeth in determination.

"Don't you worry, Mr. Trakker," he said, aiming the pizza truck straight at the returning chopper. "I won't let these varmints get their hands on you."

Matt gulped as Switchblade seemed to get bigger and bigger.

"If we're going to die together, at least you could call me Matt," he said.

Dusty chuckled. "What if we don't die?"

"Then you can call me anything you want!"

Dusty laughed, apparently from pure enjoyment, as the pizza truck hurtled toward the helicopter.

"This fella don't have a death wish, does he?"

Matt tried to match the other's casual tones.

"I doubt it. He's a businessman at heart, even if his business is crime."

"Then he won't hit us," Dusty said with supreme confidence, maintaining his position in the middle of the road.

Matt lost his pose of poise; but Dusty was right. It was Mayhem who played chicken, yanking Switchblade high into the air, away from that lunatic on wheels.

"This guy doesn't scare easy," Mayhem muttered. Into his microphone he said, "Rax, Vanessa, where are you?"

"Just coming up on you now," Rax replied.

Even though Mayhem hadn't been able to slow Dusty down, the super-powered Venom vehicles had easily overtaken the well-tuned, but elderly, pizza truck, once they'd gotten past Dagger's involuntary blockade.

* * *

"We've got company again, Dusty," Matt said.

Dusty glanced into the rear view mirror.

"These folks are persistent," he said. "They sure want you bad."

It made sense to Dusty. A rich, famous man like Matt Trakker would make a good target for terrorists, or even just ordinary kidnappers. But Matt shook his head.

"They're not after me. They want this," he said patting the briefcase. "They don't even know who I am. I hope," he added under his breath.

"Must be pretty important," Dusty commented.

"In their hands, it could be a deadly weapon," Matt said shuddering at the thought.

"Then we'd best not let them have it," the Texan said.

"You don't have to be involved in this, Dusty."

"Looks like I already am."

"These people are dangerous," Matt warned. "And they're awfully good at what they do."

"So am I," Dusty laughed, then added more seriously. "Look, I've been drivin' these streets for more'n a year now, Matt. I know them like the back of my hand. I can lose these folks, if you'll trust me?"

Matt smiled. The young man's confidence was infectious, and Matt certainly had no reason to doubt his skills. Without understanding exactly how or when it happened, Matt's fright had been turned to stimulation. He realized suddenly that he was starting to enjoy himself.

"Of course I trust you," he said. "You haven't lied to me yet."

Dusty threw back his head and laughed.

Switchblade landed in front of the pizza truck, blocking the road. Manta and Piranha closed from the rear. Dusty calculated the narrowing margin of safety with a trained eye.

"Then let's give these owlhoots a drivin' lesson, Dusty style!"

* * *

He wrenched the wheel aside. The pizza truck seemed to leap from the roadway, bounding away cross country. Manta and Piranha skidded to an astonished halt. Then all three Venom vehicles took off after him.

Matt set his jaw to stop his teeth rattling and held on tight as the truck picked up speed on the downward slope. He saw they were headed for a stretch of the 405 Freeway that wound into the San Fernando Valley.

"Isn't there a fence along there?" he asked.

"Sure is," Dusty confirmed.

Matt decided not to ask.

The engine roar took on a whining note as if overloading. It coughed.

Dusty did something complicated with gears, choke, accelerator to smooth out the sound.

And all the time he murmured sympathetically, "C'mon, baby. I know you're not built for this, but you wouldn't let ol' Dusty down, would you? After I bought you that air filter, and those spark plugs?"

Matt didn't believe it when he heard the whine give way to a purr.

"That's my baby," the Texan crooned. "Remember the little engine. 'I think I can. I think I can'."

The purr redeveloped into a full-throated roar.

Matt shook his head at his imaginings. It was silly to think the truck understood Dusty. The man was just vocalizing as he manipulated the controls to get the most out of an engine he'd obviously tuned himself. That's all it was, Matt told himself, but he marveled that a pizza truck could take the strain of this cross-country chase.

"I sure hope Ol' Man Hopkins' neighbors haven't made him see the light yet," Dusty said aloud to himself, or maybe to the truck.

Dusty didn't need to worry. The pile of trash next to the freeway fence had reached epic, almost legendary, proportions. Not his neighbors, nor Caltrans, nor the city council could make Hopkins clean up his mini-dump, and everyone else was afraid to touch it. A mass of dead brush, two-by-fours and old boards, the trash pile formed an unsightly mess — and a ramp pointing at an angle up the freeway.

"You're not … "

"Sure am," Dusty answered.

He eased up on the accelerator, jollied the speed to just the point he wanted, and hit the ramp. It only gave a little, just enough to give him some spring, like a diving board.

The truck flew into the air over the fence and landed on the freeway shoulder as cars in the outer lane scrambled for safety toward the middle. The pizza truck slid smoothly into the traffic lane and headed north, as Dusty watched the rear view mirror.

Vanessa took the dare. Manta hit the ramp too fast and leaped into the middle of the freeway, skidding across the traffic lanes, sideswiping the center fence, before Vanessa straightened it out and headed after Dusty. Brakes screeched and threw sparks as innocently bystanding cars tried to avoid her mad entrance.

Rax didn't take dares. Besides, he always fell off Piranha when the cycle went airborne.

Lasers blasting, he ripped a hole in the fence, searing the paint of an unfortunate semi that happened to be in the way. The big rig driver yanked it out of the way as Rax burst through the hole he'd made and began weaving through the traffic.

Drivers tried to get out of the way of the three speeding lunatics, though Dusty tried not to endanger anyone else. Rax and Vanessa weren't so careful. They bulled their way through wherever there was a space, and sometimes where there wasn't.

"I'm getting tired of this game of tag," Rax complained.

He opened fire with his lasers. And got a rude surprise when the unarmed pizza truck fired back — or so it seemed.

The polished, quilted steel sides of the insulated truck were as good as mirrors for reflecting the beams of light. The quilting threw the blasts in all directions, up to singe Switchblade's underbelly, sideways through Manta's windshield to fry the seat between Dagger and Vanessa, and backwards to scorch the freeway pavement and make Piranha dance like a nervous horse.

"Rax!" screamed Vanessa, Dagger and Mayhem in unison.

"Okay, so that wasn't such a good idea," Rax admitted. "Anybody got a better one?"

"Yes, cut him off, you fool!"

Mayhem could see an interchange coming up. He wanted Rax and Vanessa close to the pizza truck, so they could take any ramp it did.

Dusty slipped into the left lane of the long, two-lane ramp, which went under the east-west Ventura Freeway, then up over the north-south 405. Rax and Vanessa dodged through the traffic to come up on Dusty's right, to keep him from taking the Ventura west. They wanted to box him in and make sure he could only head east.

"Got him," Vanessa said.

Dusty didn't know Buddy Hawks, but the Texan was in complete agreement with him on one thing. Dusty didn't like to be "got" either.

He dodged left, off the ramp just before it hit the tunnel. The heavy truck plowed through huge oleander bushes, plunging away from the interchange, back onto the 405 freeway he'd left moments before.

Caught in the right lane, cut off by other traffic, the Venom vehicles were in the tunnel before they could react. As they came up on the bridge, they brought their vehicles to a screeching halt, ignoring horn blasts and curses from the drivers behind them. Rax and Vanessa looked down and saw the pizza truck disappearing in the distance with Switchblade pursuing.

Mayhem sputtered angrily over the radio.

Rax removed his mask and slammed it down violently in Piranha's sidecar. He put his elbows on the handlebars and stared moodily after the truck.

Vanessa pulled her head back in Manta.

"See you around, Rax," she said.

* * *

Dusty and Matt studied the balked Venom vehicles in their mirrors.

"That's two down," Dusty said.

"You can't get rid of Vanessa that easy, cowboy," Matt warned.

"What's she gonna do? Fly?"

* * *

**In the next installment:  
****Venom hunts from the air.  
****Dusty takes to the hills  
****And Mayhem loses his taste for pizza.**


	8. Fast Food 2

**The Origin of MASK**

**Chapter 8: Fast Food, Part 2**

**By Qweb and/or Jelsemium**

"_That's two down," Dusty said._

"_You can't get rid of Vanessa that easy, cowboy," Matt warned._

"_What's she gonna do? Fly?"_

* * *

No sooner were the words spoken than Manta launched from the overpass. Wings sprouted from its sides. The rear bumper unfolded into an airplane's tail, exposing three powerful jets that roared into life. Manta shot into the sky to join Switchblade, leaving flightless Piranha behind.

"Me'n my big mouth," Dusty said, before Matt could speak.

With two flying foes on his tail, the freeway was too exposed for Dusty's taste. He took to the city streets, dodging laser blasts that tore up the ground in front of him, trying to get him to lose control.

Matt and Dusty ducked instinctively as Manta strafed past.

"You say that's a lady flyin' that car?"

"A woman, Dusty. But she's no lady!"

A close blast singed the paint on the fender.

"I guess you're right about that."

Vanessa and Mayhem tried to take out the tires, but the heavy truck sat so low on its springs that its wheels were an impossible target. The back of the truck had the treacherous quilting effect plus thick, protective insulation to keep the pizzas warm. The cab was the only vulnerable spot; but Mayhem was still reluctant to fire directly at it, at the passenger side, anyway.

"Dagger, take out the driver," he ordered.

"Right, Mayhem."

Manta swooped low to parallel the speeding truck. Startled, Dusty looked out his window and found himself almost nose to nose with the blank, jack-o'-lantern gaze of Dagger's mask.

"Watch out!" Matt yelled, grabbing at the wheel.

"Torch, on!" Dagger commanded.

A stream of fire leaped toward Dusty, as the pizza truck spun out and stopped. Manta whipped past. Dusty cried out and beat at his flaming sleeve. As he got the fire out, Dusty saw Manta turning for another pass. He wrenched at the gears, stomped on the accelerator and shot away at right angles like a scorched jackrabbit. Manta charged past its target like a bull missing a matador.

Matt saw Dusty was again only using one hand to drive the speeding truck. His right was clenched around his left biceps.

"Dusty! Are you all right?"

Dusty sneaked a peek at his arm, sighed with relief, and put both hands back on the wheel — to Matt's relief.

"It smarts. But I reckon I'll live," Dusty said. "How many tricks these folks got, anyways?"

Rapidly Matt explained about the masks, Manta's buzz saws and Switchblade's bombs and missiles, as Dusty kept up a zigzag course, dodging around buildings, heading generally south.

"We'd be flat out of luck if they handed us a missile," Dusty said. "Why don't they?"

Matt slapped the briefcase by way of explanation. Dusty nodded in understanding.

"You hang on tight now, Matt," Dusty said. "We're almost there."

"Are we going somewhere in particular?"

"Uh, huh. I figgered if these fellas wanna play with fire, I ought'a take to the water. Here we go!"

The truck seemed to leap sideways, smashing through a chain link gate, snapping the rusty lock. Dusty and Matt bounced down a ramp into an apparently endless concrete channel with high vertical walls and a trickle of water on the floor.

Matt had a feeling of dèjà vu, then realized he'd seen the place in dozens of movies and TV shows. It was the Los Angeles River. Dry as the proverbial bone 99 percent of the time, the "river" was a joke to Southern California newcomers, until they finally saw it during the rains, swollen, angry and deadly. But, at the moment, Matt realized, the flood control channel was the perfect place for a car chase.

The concrete riverbed was as wide as a freeway and twice as smooth, apart from the sandbars, which built up at the curves, and an occasional hardy bush that planted its tenacious roots in a handy crack.

In the center of the riverbed was a secondary channel, three feet deep and five feet wide. The "creek" at the center of the river was all that was needed to carry the normal runoff from the desert-dry city. In some low spots, water spread out of the creek, covering the riverbed like a silken sheet.

Dusty allowed Manta to draw alongside again as he aimed the pizza truck at one such sprawling puddle.

As Dagger poked his head out the window again, Dusty spun the wheel and the truck shied to the side, sending a roostertail of water cascading into Manta, dousing the Torch just as it came alight.

Dagger ordered his mask to open fire, but there was no response.

"It's soaked," he told Vanessa.

Water dripping from Whip, Vanessa glared at Dagger. Her clothes were plastered to her body, her toe made little splashes on the carpet as she tapped it in anger.

"Everything's soaked, dumbbell," she snarled. "I'll teach that, that pizza truck driver to rain on my parade!"

She hit a switch extending the buzz saws that operated on long arms, one on either side of her front fenders. She cut speed to drop back and slash Dusty's tires.

"Oh, no you don't," the cowboy said, and hit her first.

The front fender of the heavy truck smashed into the rear fender of the low-flying car. Manta spun out of control, hit the side wall and ground its left buzz saw into powder against the concrete.

"Blast it!" Vanessa cursed.

"Warfield! Can't you do anything right?" Mayhem shouted.

"I don't see you helping any," she snarled back.

"I'll stop him," Mayhem swore, "if I have to do it all by myself!"

He flew ahead, rising to clear an overpass, then landing in the channel just beyond a concealing curve. He turned Switchblade to the side. Its tail brushed the concrete wall. Its nose was just a foot from the center channel. Mayhem climbed out and looked at his roadblock with satisfaction. There was no room for anything as wide as a pizza truck to pass. Even Piranha would have a hard time getting through without falling in the channel.

Mayhem waited, arms crossed, for Vanessa to herd his unsuspecting prey into the trap.

Dusty vaguely wondered where the helicopter had gone. Dodging Switchblade's laser blasts had become almost second nature; he missed it when it was gone. But he didn't have time to worry about it. He was busy trying to lure Vanessa into his trap.

Dusty measured the distance to the approaching bridge with his practiced eye, and calculated the rate of approach of Vanessa's remaining buzz saw. He cut speed just a bit to synchronize the events.

Manta roared up next to the racing pizza truck. The buzz saw edged close to its rear fender.

Dusty taped the brake and threw the truck into Manta. The buzz saw bit deep, but only into the truck body. The heavy insulation trapped the blades as the pizza truck forced the smaller car against the bridge supports.

Manta's left wing snapped off with a shriek of outraged metal. The flying car flew no longer. It dropped. Sparks flew as it was dragged along the ground; then the blade tore loose and Manta spun out, smashing against the overpass, finally scraping to a halt facing the opposite direction.

Dagger staggered out dizzily, holding the door handle for support.

Vanessa, sputtering unladylike curses, had to climb out the driver's window. The whole left side of the car was shredded. She looked at it in disgust and kicked the remaining front tire brutally.

"Come on, Dagger," she ordered.

The Venom agents ran after the pizza truck.

* * *

Bounding over sandbars at the river's curve, Dusty took the turn at high speed. Switchblade loomed up before him. Mayhem stood next to it, Viper mask at the ready.

"Whoa!" Dusty said, spinning the wheel.

A blast of Viper's corrosive acid spattered the ground behind the truck as Dusty whirled it to head back the way he'd come, only to find Vanessa and Dagger coming up fast.

Vanessa's energy whip lashed out, tearing a chunk out of the pizza truck's fender, as Dusty whirled again.

"They've got us boxed in!" Matt shouted.

"Not this boy," Dusty answered.

He swerved toward the sandbar and hit it hard with the right tires. The right side of the pizza truck bounced into the air. Dusty threw his weight to the left and jockeyed the wheel to keep the heavy truck up on two wheels. Matt fell heavily against the shoulder straps, and looked down at his young rescuer. The Texan's face was twisted into a mask of concentration.

Though Dusty hung out over the river's central channel, the truck wheels were on level ground. Forcing his head around, Matt looked out his window and saw the tilted truck's tires clear Switchblade's nose by less than an inch. The pizza truck's exposed belly would have made a great target for the chopper's cannons — if anybody had been at the controls.

Then they were past and the right side was falling back to earth. The heavy landing jolted the breath from Matt's body. But he managed a smile to meet Dusty's broad grin.

* * *

Mayhem cursed, leaped into the cockpit and took off, leaving his cursing cohorts standing ankle deep in sand. They trudged back toward the disabled Manta.

Mayhem ground his teeth. He'd almost forgotten about the component he wanted. It was a matter of dishonor now. No clown in a pizza truck was going to beat Miles Mayhem.

He swept down on the truck, lasers firing for effect. The deadly fire poured onto the truck, but the mirrored finish and the insulation deflected most of it.

"He's playing for keeps now," Matt said.

"Guess I got him mad," Dusty replied.

"The truck can't take much more of this," Matt warned.

"Time to head 'em off at the pass, pardner," Dusty said.

The truck dodged out of Switchblade's fire and whipped into a tunnel that led up out of the river. They bounded into the open and found themselves in the wide open spaces. The city had vanished. A narrow road zigzagged up a brush-covered hill in country that looked as wild as it had when Father Serra built the missions.

"Where are we?" Matt asked. He was totally lost.

"Griffith Park," Dusty replied, heading up the switchbacks into the hills.

Matt looked for Switchblade in the rear view mirror and found the city again. Beyond the multi-acre park, Los Angeles spread out concrete and glass, sparkling under a light haze of smog, blue sky clear and sharp above the thin layer of brown.

Dusty spent a lot of his free time in Griffith Park. That patch of wilderness in the midst of the teeming metropolis appealed to him. It wasn't much like the muddy swamps of the Texarkana region where he grew up, or even the plains and desert of western Texas, where he'd spent a lot of time; but it was wild land, natural. Sometimes, gregarious though the young man was, he needed to keep his own company. And, apart from the Los Angeles Zoo, Travel Town and a few picnic spots, the sprawling park in the hills was basically uninhabited. Dusty had explored every back road of Griffith Park.

It was natural that he'd head there to make his last stand.

Dusty parked in the middle of the deserted back road and climbed out. He reached behind the driver's seat and pulled out a serviceable lariat, part of his personal emergency kit.

He unlimbered it and tied the free end to a loop on the side of the truck with a quick release knot. He put the end in Matt's hand.

"You hang onto this, and when I give the word, yank it free as hard as you can."

"What are you going to do?" Matt asked.

"I'm gonna rope me a whirlybird."

"You're not serious," Matt said in disbelief.

"Sure am," Dusty replied. "Helicopters ain't the most stable critters in the world. Don't take much to set 'em on their ears."

Matt looked at the rope in his hand, then he looked at Dusty who was scanning the sky for his foe. The blond inventor grinned.

"You haven't let me down so far," he said.

* * *

They heard the searching helicopter before they saw it. The faint throb of the engine became a deafening roar as Switchblade cleared the sound-deadening hills. Coming that direction, Mayhem only caught a quick glimpse of the pizza truck before he was past it. He saw a brown-haired young man standing beside the open driver's door, twirling a lasso around his head, then he was past; but Dusty had been ready for him.

Dusty cast the rope. It looped over the helicopter's skid.

The rope tightened, jerking Switchblade to a sudden halt. Only Mayhem's superb piloting skills kept the helicopter from being yanked out of the sky by the first jolt. Then Dusty sent the truck leaping forward, dragging the helicopter behind.

Switchblade struck the side of the hill. It's rotors snapped, pieces flying in all directions.

"Cut 'er loose," Dusty cried.

Matt yanked.

The truck leaped free of its huge anchor. A section of blade speared down into the spot they'd just left. Smaller chunks of debris clanged off the truck's metallic sides.

Dusty raced away on the curving road.

* * *

Mayhem climbed out of the helicopter growling under his breath. He put his brawny shoulder under Switchblade's side and tilted the machine back onto its skids. He yanked the rope free with a curse, then climbed back inside.

He pressed a button on the control panel.

What was left of the helicopter's rotors folded together and retracted into the top of the aircraft. The tail flipped up into an airplane's tail. A pocket on the belly of the aircraft popped open revealing two powerful jets. The airfoils on either side of the chopper extended out into full-fledged wings.

Switchblade sprang from the hilltop, reborn as a fighter jet.

Mayhem scowled down at the twisting road, looking for that damned pizza truck. He was tired of fooling around. No more Mr. Nice Guy, he thought.

* * *

"I guess that was the last of 'em, Matt," Dusty said, easing the battered truck down to cruising speed.

He saw Matt was still watching the sky and the rear view mirror.

"Wasn't it?" he asked plaintively.

"That chopper's not called Switchblade for nothing," Matt said. "I'm not sure you've put it out of commission."

"Aw heck," the Texan swore. He eyed a black speck in the sky suspiciously and said, "Just what does the blasted thing switch into, anyhow?"

Matt opened his mouth to answer.

"Never mind!" Dusty shouted, spinning the wheel violently.

The black speck had swelled into rakish black jet with all too familiar red markings. It planted a bomb on the narrow road in front of them. Shaken by the explosion, Dusty slammed on the brakes. The pizza truck skidded to a stop, front wheels crunching the loose dirt the edge of a crater where the road had been. Before the dust settled, a second explosion demolished the road behind them, too.

Matt looked the situation over grimly.

They were out of running room and out of luck, this time. The truck could probably ease through either of the craters, but it couldn't do it fast. They would be sitting ducks for Switchblade, which was circling back to study its handiwork.

Matt looked down the side of the hill, steep enough to make a mountain goat dizzy, at the continuation of the road that led down toward safety. So near and yet so far, he thought in despair.

The inventor looked at Dusty whose brow was furrowed in thought. Matt knew he couldn't let this young man come to harm on his account.

"Well, cowboy, guess this is the end of the line," he said. "Maybe Mayhem will leave us alone if he gets what he wants." Matt started to unbuckle his seat belt.

Dusty's hand stopped him. Even as he gripped Matt's wrist, Dusty backed up the pizza truck, planting it against the steeply cut embankment so Switchblade could only come at them from the front.

"And it could be," Dusty argued, "that he's so mad right now he'll blow us away just for spite."

Matt had to admit the younger man had a valid point.

"Now you just trust me one more time," Dusty said. "And we'll either get away clean, or we'll take that dangerous doohickey of yours up to glory with us. And I tell you right now, I'm too young to die."

"I'm sorry I got you into this, Dusty," Matt said.

"Not me. It's the most fun I've had in a dog's age," Dusty said cheerfully.

Matt was still laughing as Dusty leaned casually out the window to watch the circling jet.

"This is your last chance," Mayhem growled over the loudspeaker. "Throw out the briefcase or I'll blast you into subatomic particles!"

Slowly, thoughtfully, Dusty put his thumb to his nose and wiggled his fingers at the jet.

Mayhem's cry of rage came to them clearly.

The jet swung out, then roared in, a missile dropping into the launching rack beneath it. The pizza truck leaped to meet it.

As the missile fired, the truck went over the edge of the road. Dusty pulled on the wheel and the truck lost its footing on the steep hill. It began to roll, over and over.

Mayhem stared as the truck disappeared, then the missile tore off the top of the hill, throwing chunks of sod and rock at the shuddering jet. Switchblade's jet engine sucked up a huge wad of brush — and choked on it.

The engine died. As Mayhem tried frantically to keep its nose up, Switchblade, for the second time that day, crashed on a hill in Griffith Park.

* * *

The pizza truck rolled to its feet as it reached the lower road, then swayed far to the left as if it wanted to continue on down. Dusty and Matt threw their weight to the right. The truck hesitated for a long moment, then dropped back to all fours.

Dusty revved the engine experimentally. The sturdy truck responded gamely. The Texan patted the dashboard affectionately and started down the road sedately, certain that this time he'd really lost his pursuers.

Dusty glanced at Matt. The inventor was frankly staring at the remarkable young driver.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" he said in a strangled voice.

Dusty nodded.

"It was too steep to drive," he explained as if everyone rolled their cars down steep hills.

"You're amazing, Dusty!" Matt said fervently. "You should be a stuntman!"

For a second something seemed to muddy the clear waters of Dusty's brown eyes; then his cheerful laugh filled the cab.

"I am, Matt. Shoot, you didn't think I could'a done all that without practice?"

* * *

Mayhem sat on the side of Switchblade, elbows on his knees, chin on his hands. Viper lay in the dust where he'd thrown it in fury as he watched the pizza truck drive away unmolested.

As Manta limped up the hill, followed by Piranha, he looked at his underlings without expression. No one said anything for a moment, as they looked at the splendid wreckage of their high tech vehicles.

"You want me to scout around and try to pick up their trail," Rax, who had the only undamaged vehicle, offered half-heartedly.

"Forget it," Mayhem sighed. "He'd just drive circles around you until you thought you were in a tornado. Let's go home," he said, sinking into Manta's back seat.

It had been a long day.

"Think we could pick up something to eat on the way?" Dagger asked plaintively.

"Anything but pizza," Vanessa said.

For once they were all in total agreement.

**In the next installment:  
****Opportunity knocks for an  
****unemployed pizza truck driver  
****and Dusty wrestles a Gator.**


	9. Fast Food 3

**The Origin of MASK**

**Chapter 9: Fast Food, Part 3**

**By Qweb and/or Jelsemium**

After their wild escape, Dusty dropped Matt off at the Bonaventure in downtown L.A.

The young man refused any offer of reward, but he gladly shook Matt's hand as if it was the greatest honor he could have received. Then he drove off, a cheerful figure in a battered pizza truck. Dirty, dented, scarred and scorched, sagging on tired shocks, it was a far cry from the shining, silvery vehicle that had rushed to Matt's rescue.

As he walked into the hotel, sagging a bit on his own springs, Matt noticed Firecracker still parked in the hotel lot. He felt a tinge of resentment that Bruce hadn't gone looking for him, then realized he'd only been gone a couple of hours, hardly long enough for Bruce to get worried.

Matt could have sworn he'd been gone a week.

Wearily he opened the door to his suite. Bruce came out of one of the bedrooms wearing a grim expression along with his MASK costume. Lifter was in his hands. His face lit up with relief when he saw his friend.

"Matt! I was getting worried! Scott told me I was being silly, but I was about to go looking for you."

He saw the dazed look on Matt's face.

"Are you all right?" he said, guiding Matt to a chair and taking the briefcase that had caused all the trouble.

"Where's Scott?" Mat asked.

"I sent him to the coffee shop."

They both knew food would occupy the growing boy for hours. Matt decided that was good. He wasn't ready to tell his tale of terror and exhilaration to his 10-year-old son, though he wouldn't be able to keep it from him for long. The inventor had a feeling Scott wouldn't be as horrified by his father's narrow escape as he would be regretful that he'd missed the wild ride himself.

Matt realized with a silent chuckle that his son and Dusty Hayes would get along just fine. And maybe they'd get the chance.

Bruce touched his silent friend's shoulder in concern. "Matt, what happened?"

Matt smiled brilliantly. "Serendipity," he explained.

**-MASK-**

Matt used the computer link to call Alex in Nevada, then told him and Bruce about his day's adventures, enthusing about Dusty's driving ability. Alex agreed to check out the Texan for possible membership in MASK. Then Bruce went, armed and cautious, to rescue Thunderhawk. He met no trouble since the Venom agents were holed up, licking their wounds.

Alex called back the next day with the report on Dusty Hayes.

"Tell us all about Matt's rescuer," Bruce said.

Alex was reluctant. He knew Matt wouldn't like it.

"Well," he said finally. "Up until yesterday he was employed as a pizza cook and delivery man by Montoni's Finest Pizza."

"Up until yesterday?" Matt said with a sinking feeling.

"What did you expect, old boy," Alex said gently, "when he brought back the truck looking like a refugee from a demolition derby with eight undelivered, stone-cold pizzas splattered all over the inside."

"Dammit, Alex, that was my fault," Matt said wearily.

"True. But this is the seventh job young Hayes has lost in less than six months. I'd say he must be used to it by now. As Mr. Montoni said, once I got him to stop screaming, Dusty Hayes is a nice young man, and a surprisingly good cook, but he's unreliable."

Something about Alex's tone made Matt suspicious. The Brit was holding something back and enjoying it.

"Come on, Alex," he warned. "Give. Dusty didn't strike me as the unreliable kind. There's more to it, isn't there?"

"Oh, yes," Alex laughed. "There's a nice little pattern here."

And he told them about Dusty's recent employment, or rather, unemployment history.

"Hmmm, sounds promising," Bruce said. "But why is he working as a delivery driver at all? He told Matt he'd been a stuntman."

"He got into stuntwork by way of the rodeo circuit. He'd been a working cowboy on the family ranch, you see. Rodeo riding made more money than that, and his family needed it. Stuntwork was even more steady employment, at least for him. He has a reputation for being great with horses, cars or boats, and he had a gift for doing a stunt right, on the mark, first time."

"The directors must have loved him," Matt commented.

"All but one," Alex said, naming one of the whiz kids of the profession, a bright star whose name on the credits alone meant an extra million at the box office.

"He and your Mr. Hayes had an argument over whether a stunt was safe and Hayes ended up walking off the set. Well, the director got some young fool to do it, and, sure enough, two people were injured. But the director managed to turn the blame around. He said if Hayes had done the job as he was supposed to do, no one would have been hurt. Apparently no one who knows Hayes believes that version, but the director had enough clout with the front office to get Hayes barred from all the major studios. None of them like a contract breaker no matter what the reason. The only stuntwork he's done in more than a year has been for small independents."

Matt was silent, but he clenched and unclenched his hands in anger.

"He's an odd duck, your Mr. Hayes," Alex continued. "He doesn't care for hunting, but he's a dead shot. Not just with a rifle either. His baseball coach said Hayes was the best pitcher on the team, but he was too good a batter to waste on the mound. He used to clean up the prizes at the county fair's midway booths every summer. He's been known to say the only thing he's really good at is driving; yet, everyone I talked to, including Mr. Montoni, mind you, said that what he's really good at is helping others. The director at the Boys Club he attended said Hayes was a shoo-in for Boy of the Year his senior year, but he had to virtually quit the club to help support his family after his father died. He's an interesting one, Matt. I'm looking forward to meeting this Mr. Hayes of yours."

"Alex, couldn't you just call him Dusty?" Matt asked.

"Before we've been properly introduced? Perish the thought!" Alex laughed and cut the connection.

**-MASK-**

It was well after 5 p.m. when Dusty Hayes returned to his apartment after a fruitless day of job hunting. He was tired and discouraged.

The phone rang just as he dropped his jacket on a chair. He answered it. His eyes lit up and he smiled for the first time in hours.

"Hi, mama," he said, stretching out on the bed. "How'd you know I needed someone to talk to? I've been out job huntin'. Yeah. Again."

He told her about his adventures the day before.

"You couldn't blame Mr. Montoni. The poor ol' truck looked like she'd been through the wringer. And he prob'ly lost a lot of business because I didn't deliver those pizzas; but I just couldn't leave Mr. Trakker to be run down by those owlhoots. They were gonna kill him! You should'a seen him, mama. He ran past me, and the look on his face reminded me of a dog fox bein' chased by a pack'a hounds. He was all scared and desperate, but there was kind of a proud look, too, like a fella who won't give up no matter what. I just couldn't stand by and do nothin'."

Elsie Hayes told her son at length how proud she was of him. How could she be otherwise when Dusty believed so strongly in the ideals she and her husband had lived and taught, that all life was sacred and the only way to find happiness yourself was by helping others. But it distressed her to see Dusty being punished for his good deeds. She worried it would break his spirit. Tentatively she asked how the job hunt had gone.

"It doesn't look like anyone wants a fella who's been fired as many times as I have. Can't blame them, I s'pose."

Elsie assured Dusty that she wanted him, and there would, heaven knew, always be work for him on the family ranch. Both she and Dusty knew that he would feel a failure if he went home because he had to, not because he wanted to. The way Elsie couched the invitation, though, made it sound as if the whole place was falling apart for lack of a man around the house.

"Problem is, I hardly even have bus fare home. Didn't feel right about takin' pay from Mr. Montoni after I wrecked his truck," Dusty told her, but he didn't really sound worried any more. His natural cheerfulness had reasserted itself. "Tell you what, mama. If I don't find a job by next month, before my lease runs out, I'll come home for a while. But you know there's always work for a fella who don't mind gettin' his hands dirty."

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation.

"Gotta go, there's someone at the door," he laughed. "Maybe it's opportunity knockin'. Bye, mama. I love you."

He cradled the phone gently. There was still a half smile on his lips as he opened the door. He blinked in surprise.

"Hi, Dusty," Matt said. "May we come in?"

"Sure, Matt," Dusty said, remembering his manners.

He ushered Matt and his Oriental friend inside. Matt introduced Bruce who had been looking around with interest and approval. The apartment building was, frankly, a dump; but Dusty's room was neat and clean, not finicky, but much better than merely livable. The Texan didn't have to rush around straightening things up for his unexpected guests. He did have a problem with seating arrangements, however. He solved it by putting Matt in the old armchair, Bruce in the desk chair, and himself on the edge of the bed.

Matt studied Dusty as if it had been months since he'd last seen him.

"You look tired, Dusty," he said finally. "Job hunting's hard work, isn't it? Especially when you don't have any luck."

Dusty ran his fingers through his hair.

"I always figgered anyone who became a millionaire had to be a mind reader," he said.

"Not a mind reader. I just do my homework. I've been checking up on you, Dusty."

"On me? What for?"

"I want to hire you. I like what I've seen in your rèsumè," Matt said.

Dusty looked wary. "It's been a long time since anyone's said that. I reckon you haven't read the current version."

"Oh, I know your history," Matt assured him. "You've worked for three delivery firms and four pizza places, and been fired from all of them for being unreliable. You're just the kind of person I need."

Dusty's knuckles were white where his hand gripped a fold in the bedspread.

"Are you jokin' with me?" he said in a voice as tight as his fist.

"Does the oak tree grow pine needles?" Bruce said.

"Come again?" Dusty said. He was much too polite to say, "Huh?"

"He means it's not my style to make fun of people," Matt said. "I meant what I said. I'm offering you a job."

Matt stepped across the small room and put his hands on the Texan's shoulders.

"Dusty, you saved my life yesterday. Do you think I'd track you down and come here, just to make fun of you?"

Dusty looked up into Matt's blue-gray eyes, which held no trace of mockery.

"No," he said, relaxing. "I guess you're too busy a man for that."

Suspicion was gone, but Dusty was still puzzled.

"Gettin' fired ain't exactly what most folks look for in a job applicant."

"But it's the reasons you were fired, Dusty," Matt said. "Being late with your deliveries because you were taking a pregnant woman to the hospital. Or stopping to help a bicyclist hit by a car. Not to mention saving my life."

"I'm not so sure about rescuing a kitten from a tree, though," Bruce put in.

Dusty grinned at him.

"You didn't see that little girl cryin' as if her heart would bust."

The young man looked over both his visitors. "Then you're really serious? You're not doin' this just 'cause you feel sorry for me?"

"Feel sorry for you?" Bruce laughed. "You don't know how hard it is to find people like you, Dusty. Someone who wants to help. Someone so honest he will do the right thing, even when he knows it will get him into trouble. And someone who can drive like raving maniac."

"I guess you've got the right person at that," Dusty said, scratching his head in puzzlement. "What is it you want doin'?"

"Remember those people who were chasing us yesterday?" Matt said.

"Can't say that I do," Dusty said innocently.

Matt made a face at him. "What we want is to give you a chance to face them again, in something better equipped than a pizza truck."

Matt began to tell him about Venom, and about MASK.

Dusty was excited. He didn't think he'd ever have a better chance to help people than he'd have with MASK, but he still didn't know what his part was supposed to be.

"Right now we're still getting organized," Matt said. "We need someone to test drive all our vehicles. And I can't think of anyone who could put them through their paces better. I want you to come to Nevada and work for me. What do you say?"

Dusty's shining eyes said it all.

"Then get packed. You're moving into our suite at the hotel. I don't want Venom tracking you here the way I did."

"It won't take me but a minute … boss," Dusty said.

Matt and Bruce went down to wait by Thunderhawk.

"I'll have to call Mama and tell her it was opportunity knocking," Dusty said to himself as he threw his meager belongings into a bag.

**-MASK-**

Standing by the car, Bruce said, "I thought MASK was supposed to be a volunteer position, Matt."

"You saw his credit file. He's dead broke. He gave his last paycheck back to Montoni to pay for repairs on the truck."

"True, but he's a proud man, Matt Trakker. He won't thank you for giving him a job out of pity."

"Pity, Bruce? It's not pity. I don't think I ever met anyone who needed pity less than Dusty. But I won't see anyone who helps me suffer for it. Besides, we do need someone to test your doohickeys."

"The way you described his driving, I'm not sure I want him to even touch my babies," Bruce retorted.

**-MASK-**

Dusty was mightily impressed by the Bonaventure Hotel. The multiple towers were all glass and steel. They looked like futuristic buildings and had portrayed the same in many movies.

Matt ushered him into the penthouse suite. The inventor looked around for his son and heard noises coming from the boy's room. He looked in to find Scott engrossed in the final action-packed scene of a movie he'd seen a dozen times at least.

Dusty followed Matt gingerly across the plush carpet as if he was afraid he'd bruise it.

"Scott, I want you to meet someone," Matt said.

Scott didn't even look up. "Just a minute, Dad. This is the best part."

"Scott," Matt said in parental warning.

"It's okay, Matt," Dusty said. "This is the best part."

Eyes sparkling, Dusty sat down on the edge of the bed to watch the Everglades chase scene. Matt could do no less for hospitality's sake. He watched as the boats careened through small channels, leaped hollow logs and finally wended their way to the crash-bang finale. As they came to the rather mushy anticlimax, Scott turned away, heaved a sigh of enjoyment and scrambled to his feet to meet the new MASK agent.

"Hi, I'm Scott," he said, offering his hand like a man.

Dusty took it gravely and told the boy his name.

"I'm sorry about this, Dusty," Matt apologized. "That's his favorite movie."

"Mine, too," Dusty said.

"Isn't it neat!" Scott enthused. "The best part is where the boat goes flying into the air and lands on top of the canoe!"

Dusty laughed. "That always makes my hind end hurt all over again when I watch it."

"Is this one of your movies, Dusty?" Matt asked.

"Uh huh. See?" He pointed at the rolling credits where his name appeared in tiny letters.

"Wow! You're a stuntman?" Scott said.

Dusty confessed that he used to be.

"Gee, what movies did you make? Did you ever meet anyone famous? What kind of stunts did you do?"

Scott prevailed upon Dusty to tell his war stories. Matt and Bruce weren't slow to ask questions, either. The cowboy began to relax under their genuine interest, but the fancy building still had him overawed.

When he excused himself to put his gear away in the room Matt assigned him, Dusty put his bag down as gently as if he was setting it on eggs. He kept his cowboy hat in his hands, turning it around and around.

"You're making me nervous," Bruce said.

"Sorry. This suite is bigger'n the whole town I grew up in," Dusty said.

"If you think this is bad, wait until you see Matt's house," Bruce advised.

**-MASK-**

Alex had persuaded the PNA to keep an eye on Montoni's pizza place to make sure Venom didn't try to track down the mysterious pizza truck driver the way he had. He needn't have worried.

Mayhem never considered tracking down the driver of the pizza truck, because he didn't believe it was a pizza truck.

Upon careful consideration, based on the philosophy he knew best, Mayhem decided that the pizza truck driver must have been working with the runner all along. After all, no one would take risks like that for a total stranger! To Mayhem, the Good Samaritan concept was nothing but a fairy tale. And whatever he couldn't comprehend, he automatically rejected as impossible.

"That 'pizza truck' must have been superpowered to outrun our vehicles and armored to protect it from our lasers," he rationalized to the others who were lounging around the warehouse where their battered vehicles were hidden.

He smacked his fist into his palm in anger.

"Sounds like one of our vehicles, Mayhem," Rax drawled. "Someone's stealing your ideas again."

"Just like those 'masked invaders from Mars' in Boulder Whatsis, Nevada," Vanessa said.

"Yes," Mayhem growled in speculation. "I'd forgotten about Boulder Hill, Nevada. Maybe the two things tie together. Let's check it out."

He looked around his depleted motor pool.

"After you pinheads get this junk running again," he amended with a snarl.

**-MASK-**

Matt's mansion left Dusty speechless; but it was MASK headquarters that made his jaw drop.

He stared at the computers and the flashing lights on a world map. He gawked at the high domed ceiling with the "chandelier" of dangling masks that hung over a round table surrounded by high-backed chairs. And all of it was dwarfed by a wall-sized view screen.

Matt didn't say anything. He let Dusty absorb the scientific wonders at his own pace, counting on the young man's natural resilience to see him through. Matt figured that events might bend Dusty out of shape, but he'd snap back as fast as a rubber band.

Finally Dusty shut his mouth and turned his gaze back to Matt. There was immense respect on his face at the thought that his friend had designed all this. His eyes sparkled.

"Whooo-wee!" he breathed. "I feel like I'm on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise."

Matt slapped his shoulder affectionately.

"Don't let it scare you, Dusty. They're only tools."

Dusty shook his head.

"A hammer's a tool, Matt. This's … magic!"

Matt showed off some more magic, taking Dusty on the mini-subway to the Boulder Hill gas station.

Dusty sighed with something like relief as he crossed the threshold of the secret door into the gas station. Here at least was something he understood.

Then he paused. Or maybe not. He remembered that the sleepy looking desert gas station concealed the headquarters of a high tech crime fighting force. What was it Matt had said, "MASK: Where Illusion is the Ultimate Weapon." Dusty wondered whether he'd ever look at things unsuspiciously again.

As they came out of the empty gas station, Dusty looked unsuspiciously at a bald-headed man who had his hand on his red-bearded chin as he studied an orange jeep with obvious disapproval.

Matt introduced him as Alex Sector. The Englishman took his thoughts away from the jeep with no reluctance.

"So you're Dusty Hayes," he said, pumping the Texan's hand. "We owe you a debt of gratitude. We'd have a hard time coping without Matthew here."

Alex knew Dusty's whole life history. All Dusty knew about Alex was that he was one of Matt's oldest friends. But that was recommendation enough for the Texan.

"I'd be obliged if you'd call me, Dusty, sir," he said to the man who, as it happened, was exactly old enough to be Dusty's father.

Alex winced. He did not want to be reminded of the 20-year age gap between himself and Dusty. He told the Texan firmly that he would call him Dusty, if Dusty cut out the "sir" stuff.

"Where's … ?" Matt let his question trail off.

Dusty took the hint and wandered over to look at the jeep.

"He's gone back to Washington," Alex said referring to Buddy Hawks, master spy, master mechanic, master of disguise, and the gas station's pump jockey. "Duane recalled him for a debriefing. Buddy balked a bit, but when Duane threatened to hold up his last paycheck, well, I haven't seen him move so fast since we were shooting at him."

Matt laughed. He'd intended to introduce Dusty to Buddy, the two men were close in age and he'd hoped they would get along. But he'd had second thoughts even before he left the subway. Matt remembered how close Venom had come to getting the names of all the MASK agents from his own briefcase computer. It might be safer, he thought, to keep the agents' identities secret from each other — at least until he had his 12-man roster set.

"I wish Buddy was here," Alex continued, unaware of Matt's wandering train of thought. "This blasted jeep is giving me fits."

"What's wrong with it?" Matt said, raising his voice to include Dusty in the conversation again.

Alex explained that the engine was running rough, but he couldn't seem to find the problem.

"Of course, my specialty is computers, not internal combustion engines," he said.

"Can I take a look at 'er?" Dusty asked. "Me'n jeeps have an understanding."

"Of course," Matt said.

Before he could say another word of advice or warning, Dusty gripped the front of the hood and lifted. It wasn't latched down, of course, since Alex had been working on it.

The whole front of the car — hood, fenders and windshield — reared back, rising up off the wheels; and Dusty found himself looking at the prow of a motorboat.

There was a smothered silence behind him as Dusty looked at the unexpected sight. But after Matt Trakker invited you into his home, every other miracle seemed pretty paltry. Dusty Hayes was learning to expect the unexpected.

He turned to look at the older men who were trying manfully to maintain straight faces.

Totally deadpan himself, Dusty drawled, "I think I've found your problem, pard. She's got a boat where her motor ought'a be."

The others dissolved in laughter.

"Dusty, old chap, you're all right," Alex said, shaking the Texan's hand all over again.

"This more of that illusion stuff you were talkin' about, Matt?" Dusty asked.

When Bruce and Scott drove up in Thunderhawk to join the group around the jeep, Matt and Alex were taking turns describing the vehicle's hidden assets. They made way for Bruce who was the designer.

Inside the auto shell was a powerful motorboat that could be launched for varying distances by an adjustable hydraulic spring. The boat was armed with depth charges and a water cannon that was more than a fire extinguisher. The water gun was paired with a freeze ray and, by changing the synchronization of the pulses, the driver could shoot a plain jet of water, a jet that froze on contact, or a stream of solid ice balls.

"That'd sure knock you cold," Dusty commented.

"You wouldn't have a snowball's chance," Matt agreed.

Dusty looked at the jeep. The front was still propped up, gaping like an open mouth — a big mouth.

"Just look at 'er, grinning there like a big ol' gator," he said. "She's got a few more tricks up her sleeve, I'll bet."

The others knew a christening when they heard it. Bruce had hoped for something a bit more elegant; but he had to admit "Gator" fit the sturdy, swamp-slopping, amphibious vehicle.

Bruce shut Gator's "mouth" and climbed up on the back of the jeep. He swung up the cannon that trailed from the rear roll bar and brought it into firing position, resting its muzzle on the front roll bar.

"This is an electrical interface scrambler," Bruce said proudly, displaying his most revolutionary development. It wasn't quite like anything else in the world.

Dusty scratched his head. "What's that when it's at home?"

Bruce tried to explain. "It fires a beam which disrupts the flow of energy in machinery."

The puzzled look on Dusty's face deepened.

"Are you with me?" Bruce asked doubtfully.

"I'm not sure I'm up with you," the Texan admitted. "But I think I see your dust. Keep'a goin'."

"It shorts out machines," Bruce said, simplifying as much as he could. "It makes engines stop. It gives people a good jolt, too."

"Sort of an electronic 'ouch'," Dusty said, his eyes lighting with understanding.

It was Bruce's turn to scratch his head as he heard his ultrasophisticated, high tech device described in Dusty's simple terms. But, as with Gator, it was accurate. He smiled at Dusty's inquiring gaze.

" 'Electronic ouch' sums it up pretty well, Dusty," he admitted.

Dusty nodded to himself as if to fix the definition in his memory, then he turned his attention to the contrary engine.

"Now, where's the engine and what's wrong with it?" he asked Alex.

Alex showed him. Dusty started the engine. It coughed like a baby elephant with bronchitis. Dusty frowned at it like a serious-minded pediatrician.

"Poor, baby," he said sympathetically.

He reached his arm into the engine clear up to his shoulder and began fiddling with something. Matt started to explain that the clean-burning, superpowerful engine wasn't exactly what he was used to, when the coughing stopped. The engine roared, then settled down to a sweet hum that, Bruce could have sworn, exactly matched the tone of Dusty's murmured encouragements.

This isn't mechanics, Matt thought. It's magic. Of course, that's what Dusty had said about his inventions. To each person his special talents. That's what MASK is all about, Matt decided.

"When are you going to test it, Dusty?" Scott asked eagerly.

"No time like the present," Dusty replied, looking at Matt for permission that came immediately.

Dusty reached for canvas bag he'd been carrying.

"Can I come with you?" Scott begged.

Dusty saw panic flash in Matt's eyes and fought to keep from grinning. He held his face grave as he looked at the youngster.

"Wellll, I dunno. You bring your crash helmet with you? How about kneepads? Gloves?"

Disappointed, Scott had to admit he didn't have any of the protective gear Dusty was unpacking and putting on.

"See, Scott, whatever it looks like on film, a stuntman don't take unnecessary chances," Dusty said seriously. "He always wears a helmet, fastens his seat belt and takes a fire extinguisher along. And he makes sure he's got some backup in case things go wrong. Speakin'a which, you fellas gonna tag along?"

"I, for one, wouldn't miss it for the world," Alex said.

Matt agreed to trail Dusty in Thunderhawk, keeping watch on the young man from the air. The others insisted on coming along, too.

For the first time, Scott was glad that T-Bob had locked himself up in the mansion as he worked on the dumb project Buddy had inspired. If the robot had been along, Thunderhawk would have been too crowded.

Scott still looked glum, though, as he climbed into the flying car.

"Cheer up, pard," Dusty advised him. "Once Gator 'n me get used to each other, we'll give you that ride."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

The wink Dusty gave Matt was a promise, too. The inventor could be sure Dusty would never do anything to endanger the boy.

As for endangering himself, that was another matter.

Dusty started out easy enough, taking Gator into the desert at an unhurried pace, getting the feel of the steering, bounding over an occasional dune, gradually picking up speed.

Bruce's eyes started to bug out. Alex turned a little green. Even Scott gulped as Dusty began to wrestle his Gator. Matt, with the wisdom of experience, didn't watch.

He didn't try to keep up with all the turns, skids, spinouts and leaps Dusty put Gator through. He just circled overhead in Thunderhawk giving his passengers a bird's-eye view of the 'E' ticket ride.

The exhibition explained a lot to Scott that his father hadn't.

"Dad?" said the boy without removing his nose from the window where it was pressed. "Is that the way Dusty helped you escape from Venom?"

Matt could try to tone down his adventures, but he couldn't out-and-out lie to his son. He admitted it was true.

"I think you left out the best part," the boy said.

**In the next installment:**

**Dusty meets a mask that doesn't understand him**

**and a motorcycle that doesn't like him.**

**And T-Bob microwaves pizza.**


	10. Fast Food 4

**The Origin of MASK**

**Chapter 10: Fast Food, Part 4**

**By Qweb and/or Jelsemium**

Dusty culminated his virtuoso performance by deliberately rolling the jeep. Bruce gasped and closed his eyes as Gator tumbled over twice, then bounded back to her feet like a well-trained dog. Dusty brought the jeep to a halt.

Matt set Thunderhawk down next Dusty who was inspecting the boat inside. Satisfied that it hadn't been jarred loose, he turned his attention to the outside of the jeep. He ran his hands along the chassis in admiration.

"Not a scratch," he told Bruce proudly. "You sure build 'em good, Bruce."

Bruce recovered speech enough to thank him.

"I must say I'm surprised to find Gator, and you, both intact after that escapade," Alex said.

"But why, Alex?" Matt teased. "Bruce is used to designing toys to survive rough play, clumsy fingers and childish temper tantrums."

"And Venom's going to throw more than a temper tantrum at us," Bruce said, though, truth to tell, he'd been as surprised as Alex.

Dusty detailed a few minor points about Gator's handling and about the placement of the boat which would make Gator more efficient, but he had few complaints.

Thunderhawk's computer beeped a warning. Matt walked over casually to view the screen.

"There's a helicopter coming," he reported, then his pulse quickened as the computer made an ID. "It's Switchblade!"

The MASK agents exchanged startled looks, then Alex held up his palm for calm.

"Easy, chaps," he said soothingly. "There's no way Mayhem could have traced us here."

Alex was confident he had covered the tracks Buddy had followed to find MASK.

"And they sure didn't recognize you from the other day, Matt," Dusty said. "That disguise of your'n would'a fooled Scott."

"Then what's he doing here?"

"Maybe he saw that 'spaceman' article in the newspaper," Bruce said. "If so, he won't find out anything in town. The people who talked to the reporter have been laughed at so much they hardly talk to anyone any more."

"Well, there's only one way to find out whether he's really onto us," Matt said.

"A worm makes attractive bait, but only to a hungry fish," Bruce said.

"Exactly!" said Matt.

"Huh?" said Alex, Dusty and Scott in unison.

* * *

Matt wanted to find if the fish recognized the bait, but he didn't intend to be swallowed. He sat in Thunderhawk, one hand on the controls that would bring the lasers to life. Bruce sat in Gator, ready to man the Ouch Cannon if necessary.

Because Dagger had gotten a good look at Dusty, the cowboy was under Gator as if making repairs on the jeep. There wasn't much cause for worry, however. Dagger only remembered his own name because Mayhem screamed it in fury three or four times each day.

Alex and Scott stood alongside the vehicles as if kibitzing. When Switchblade flew over the normal seeming group, everyone, except Dusty, looked up at it. It would have been unnatural not to. At Alex's urging, Scott even waved at the helicopter.

Mayhem humphed and flew past, hardly giving the homey group a glance. Dagger, who could be as childlike as he was deadly, leaned out and waved back.

"Would you cut that out," snarled Mayhem.

"You're just grumpy because we didn't find any Martians," Dagger said. "I could have told you there's no such thing. Just like the Easter Bunny."

Mayhem growled to himself; but what Dagger said was true. The only interesting thing Mayhem had learned in Boulder Hill was that it was the home of Matt Trakker, the Matt Trakker, the extraordinarily wealthy Matt Trakker.

The very thought made Mayhem salivate.

He wondered if he had the time for an extra fundraising venture before he set up his seventh, and final, museum robbery. He decided he did. Mayhem always had time for money. He was still thinking about Matt Trakker while Switchblade put the Trakker family and friends far behind it.

* * *

Matt wouldn't have sighed with relief to see Switchblade go if he'd known what Mayhem was thinking.

"I'm glad that's over," he said.

Dusty had already put thoughts of Mayhem out of his mind. He wanted to get back to his job.

"Where's a lake, so I can check out Gator's boat?" he asked.

Dusty liked to give a full day's work for a day's pay.

"Tomorrow, Dusty. You've done enough for today," Matt said.

Dusty glanced at the sun, which was only slightly past its zenith.

"But there's still plenty of daylight left," he said, puzzled. "I'm ready to go."

"But we're not," Matt said.

Dusty realized his friends were going to take awhile to get used to his headlong ways. They did look a bit green, now that he thought about it. He grinned at them fondly, but the look he unconsciously threw Gator was more than fond. It bore the wistful longing of an orphan child eyeing a Christmas tree laden with presents.

Bruce watched the play of emotions on Dusty's expressive face, understanding the younger man had no practice at masking his feelings and no real desire to start. Thou shalt not covet, Bruce thought, as he watched Dusty fight down a disloyal desire to keep the jeep. Fought it down and banished it.

It was with only a tinge of reluctance that the Texan handed the keys to Bruce.

The toymaker refused them.

"No, Gator's yours, Dusty," he said, to the other's wide-eyed surprise. "I didn't know it at the time, but I built her for you."

Dusty couldn't believe his ears.

"He's right, Dusty," Matt said. "You and Gator belong together."

Fist clenched around the keys, Dusty sat in the driver's seat and ran his free hand over the steering wheel.

"I never could afford a car of my own," he said huskily. "I … "

He couldn't find the words for a proper thank you. Matt gripped his shoulder.

"Let's go back to the house," he said. "You can try some target practice with the Ouch Cannon and make sure you didn't shake it apart."

Dusty's eyes seemed to blaze with all the emotions he couldn't find words for.

What he did say was, "C'mon, Scott. I'll give you that ride now."

* * *

"Backlash, FIRE!" Dusty said.

Nothing happened. Dusty sighed.

It had really seemed like Christmas when Matt let Dusty pick out one of the finished masks. He chose Backlash because the tinted, full-face, pointed visor offered him the widest field of vision. But somebody must have forgotten to put the batteries in this present.

Matt, Scott, Alex, and T-Bob, who had been dragged away from his experiments, watched, puzzled by the mask's non-behavior. Bruce, who had built the sonic disruptor, was as puzzled as all four of them put together.

He took the mask, which was linked by cable to a power pack, just for testing purposes; and put it on.

"Backlash, fire!" he ordered.

Through the specially treated visor he saw the lines of force shoot out to punch a hole in the bed sheet target.

Without the special glass, the others saw only the result; but they heard the whip crack that gave the mask its name.

"Backlash, on!" Bruce tried the alternate command.

Again the mask fired. Bruce handed it back to Dusty. Obediently the Texan tried both commands. Again nothing happened.

Wordlessly he passed the mask to the blond inventor and watched while Matt, Alex and Scott all hit the target. Bruce's face was a tight mask of concentration.

Dusty sighed again. "Looks like she don't like me, no how," he said mournfully.

Bruce snapped his fingers, "Of course!"

He hooked up the computer to Backlash and juggled the programming as Dusty recited the commands yet again.

"When the owl speaks, does the raven pay heed?" Bruce said in answer to Matt's questioning look.

"Of course," Matt said. "It's always the obvious you overlook."

"You suppose you two could speak English?" Dusty said before Alex could.

Matt and Bruce began to laugh. A moment later, Alex joined them as he belatedly got the point. Scott and Dusty exchanged looks, then shrugged.

With great ceremony, Bruce handed the revamped Backlash to Matt. Nothing happened.

"Now you've broken it," Scott said.

"Let Dusty try it," Matt suggested.

This time Dusty shredded the target.

"It's not that Backlash didn't like you, Dusty," Matt explained. "It didn't understand you."

Scott looked at Alex blankly.

"His accent, Scott," the man explained. "It wasn't programmed to recognize a Texas drawl. Now it won't respond to anything else."

"Oh."

When Scott thought about it, he realized Dusty's "fire" sounded more like "far" and his "on" had a whole different vowel sound. Of course, he hadn't noticed it. He was used to it.

"You mean, you all built me a Yankee mask?" Dusty teased, accenting his accent.

Matt patted his shoulder.

"Don't worry, it'll be civil from now on, I'll war rant."

"Yes, it will be your loyal confederate," Bruce chimed in, maintaining a straight face with an effort.

They looked at Dusty expectantly. Fortunately the Texan was up to the challenge.

"You're not just whistlin' Dixie, pards," he agreed.

* * *

Scott sat at the patio table feeling disconsolate. He'd had a lonely morning. His father and Alex had gone to town to pick up a shipment of electrical supplies to complete the computer center in the big rig cab known as Rhino. They also intended to nose around and make sure Venom had really left town as it appeared.

Dusty and Bruce had gone out to the desert to test yet another MASK vehicle.

In just a week, Dusty, a diligent technician, had already finished with Gator's hydroplane, and checked out the two sections of Rhino together and separately. The Firecracker pickup had met with his complete approval. Of the MASK vehicles that were finished, Dusty only had Condor — the motorcycle that changed into a helicopter — left to go. He couldn't check the helicopter's performance, since he couldn't fly one; but he could work the bugs out of the motorcycle.

In the afternoons, Dusty had put in a lot of target practice with a variety of weapons. He concentrated on Backlash's sonic blast and Gator's two cannons, but he also helped Bruce finished the sighting adjustments on the weapons from several other vehicles. Bruce had found that Dusty's aim was as true as a computer's and more adaptable.

But while everyone else was out having "fun" Scott had been stuck at home alone with nothing to keep him company but five rooms of toys and a preoccupied robot. Now, to add insult to injury, T-Bob had insisted on fixing Scott lunch. The kid couldn't find any way to get out of it without hurting the mechanism's feelings.

All in all, Scott felt pretty glum when Firecracker pulled into the driveway, carrying Condor on its tailgate rack.

The boy sat up straight and stared as Dusty got out of the pickup and unfastened Condor. The Texan lived up to his name and then some. To say he was dusty was like saying the Pacific Ocean was wet. Clouds of dirt floated off him at every step except where sweat had turned it to mud in his hair and on his face.

Yet the mudpack couldn't conceal his thunderously grim expression.

Dusty set the lightweight cycle down with the excessive care of someone who really wanted to hurl it against the wall. Then he walked toward Scott, a purposeful expression on his face. He pealed off his jacket and dropped it on the patio, where it lay like a pile of sand. Hardly breaking his measured stride, he pulled off his boots, passed the open-mouthed Scott and dove into the swimming pool, still clad in brown stained blue jeans and a once-red T-shirt. The clear water became muddy and Scott lost sight of the young man.

The boy turned to Bruce who had followed Dusty out of the pickup. The Japanese inventor was hot, sweaty and dusty, though nowhere near the Texan's earthen condition. For a moment, Bruce looked as if he'd like to follow Dusty into the pool, but dignity restrained him. Instead he sat down in the shade of the table's umbrella and heaved a heavy sigh.

Scott proved he could think in an emergency. He went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with three glasses of ice tea. Bruce swallowed half of his in one gulp, sighed again, this time with relief, and thanked Scott.

Dusty surfaced and sprawled tiredly on the wide pool steps, not ready to leave the cool water. When Scott brought him his tea, he saw a livid bruise on the Texan's right cheek and abrasions on both his arms. The palm of the hand that took the tea was scraped and raw. Considering the amount of protective clothing Dusty wore, Scott decided he must have taken quite a fall to get so banged up and dirty.

Dusty looked at the muddy water.

"Sorry, Scott," he said to the boy who had to clean the pool. "Guess I shouldn't'a done that."

Scott waved away the apology. "You look like you should have done it sooner," the boy said.

Restored by cool liquids inside and outside, Dusty managed a faint grin.

"Did something go wrong?" Scott ventured.

"Well, I'll tell you, that Firecracker truck is a real pistol, but that Condor is for the birds," Dusty said. "She wants to fly."

Scott scratched his head. "I thought it was supposed to fly?"

"Not when it's a motorcycle," Bruce put in.

"Oh."

"I finally gave it up after I plowed a full furrow with my nose," Dusty confided to Scott. "I tell you, Bruce," he said fervently. "I've ridden professional buckin' horses that I could stay on longer than that cycle!"

"It must be that the airfoils on the side give too much lift," Bruce said, making some notations on a pad of paper. "You know, Dusty, I am beginning to feel that Condor was a mistake completely. We don't even have anyone to fly it."

But Dusty's good humor had been restored by cool water and iced tea.

"Don't you worry, Bruce," he advised as he hoisted his sopping self out of the pool. "Condor was made for someone, you just ain't met him yet."

"I just hope that when we do meet him, Condor doesn't throw him on his face," Bruce sighed.

"I'm starvin', pard," Dusty said to Scott. "What's for lunch?"

Scott's face fell at the reminder. "Oh. I almost forgot. T-Bob's cooking again."

Bruce groaned, "That is the unkindest cut of all."

Dusty looked puzzled. As a guest, he hadn't yet been subjected to one of T-Bob's experiments. As if on cue, the robot, dressed in a white cook's hat and apron, walked out carrying a platter. On it was the soggiest, saddest looking lump of cheese, grease and dough Dusty had ever seen.

Bruce reminded himself for the fifth time to kill Buddy Hawks when he got back from Washington, D.C. His off-hand challenge to T-Bob had given the Trakkers and their friends indigestion for weeks.

"Come and get it!" T-Bob announced, clanging a spoon against his metal side for emphasis. "Microwave pizza, my best one yet!"

Dusty had been brought up to be polite and eat whatever his host put in front of him; but he looked at that sorry mess, thought of the trying day he'd already put in, and rebelled.

He pulled Scott with him as he slopped into the house to change.

"C'mon, I mean to check out your kitchen," he said.

* * *

Matt and Alex parked out front and began unloading boxes of equipment from Thunderhawk's trunk. They were relieved to find that Venom had left town and were ready to start the next phase of their anti-Venom program.

"So Vancouver's our next stop, eh?" Alex said.

"That's right. I just got word there's been some trouble with the medical research building I'm sponsoring. I have to mediate a dispute between the contractor and the architect."

Alex looked at him shrewdly.

"There's something else, isn't there?"

Matt laughed. "You know me too well, old friend. Yes, I have heard about a young man who sounds like a promising MASK recruit. He's already foiled two Venom plots, primarily by accident, I'll admit."

"What's this one do?" Alex asked. "Is he a helicopter pilot? A computer expert? A Mountie?"

"Actually, he's a lumberjack," Matt said, waiting for the explosion.

Alex almost choked on it, but he refused to oblige Matt. He changed the subject instead.

"I wonder what's for lunch?"

"Can't you guess?" Matt said.

Alex remembered T-Bob.

"In that case, perhaps I won't stay," he said, as Matt pushed the front door open. They were assailed by the delightful smell of fresh-baked pizza. "Then again … You don't suppose T-Bob actually got it right this time?"

They ventured into the kitchen and found T-Bob looking glum. But everyone else was quite happy. Dusty was demonstrating proper pizza handling, spinning the dough in the air with deft twists of his floury hands. He explained to the fascinated Bruce that most places just rolled the dough out, but he'd been taught the traditional method of stretching it to fit the pan.

Scott watched Dusty's technique with an interest that boded ill for the Trakker ceiling in the not-so-distant future. Matt and Alex were quick to help themselves to a share of a finished pizza. Alex eyed Dusty with amusement.

"You amaze me, Dusty. I never considered pizza as Southern cooking," he said. "Unless, of course, you're talking about Southern Italy."

"Where did you learn to do this?" Matt asked.

"Grandma Teresa taught me," Dusty answered, as he flipped the dough through a fog of steam from the stove, landing it right on the mark in the pizza pan. "Teresa Regina Ysabella Counter."

Dusty spoke the name with proper Italian emphasis, dropping in her married name with a deliberate thud.

"You mean your grandmother was Italian?" Alex asked.

"Shoot, no," Dusty said, grinning. "She was Texas born. But her folks were Italian."

* * *

The founders of MASK soon learned that Dusty could cook a lot more than pizza. Italian specialties, Western barbecue and down-home country cooking all came easily to his talented hands.

It was just as well Dusty could cook. It gave him something to do. Once he'd finished with all the assembled MASK vehicles, except the still recalcitrant Condor, he was unemployed until Matt, Bruce and their mystery mechanic finished the next batch. Being idle gave Dusty entirely too much time to think.

Scott found Dusty lying on the front lawn one morning. Since Scott was playing international spy at the time, he began sneaking up on the Texan. He quickly realized, however, that something was wrong. The set of Dusty's shoulders looked unusual. He looked — Scott was surprised by the thought — unhappy.

Instead of pouncing, Scott coughed artificially and sat down on the grass beside his friend. "What's wrong, Dusty?"

"I feel useless," the Texan said, violently tossing away the blade of grass he'd been chewing on. "I can't keep on taking your daddy's money and not doin' anythin' to earn it."

Scott protested but Dusty eyed him shrewdly.

"Ain't no one else bein' paid to be in MASK, is there?"

Scott had to confess that was true. Buddy Hawks drew salary from Matt but that was for running the Boulder Hill gas station in his patented abrasive fashion. And Scott couldn't mention Buddy's name anyway.

"Honest, Dusty, we've got plenty of money and … " Scott let it trail off.

The Trakkers were a proud family, too. For all Scott had been born with a golden spoon in his mouth, he understood the work ethic. He knew his father labored long hours for his fortune. And he knew Dusty wouldn't take what he considered charity.

"I guess I understand. I'll miss you," he said in a small voice.

Dusty laughed and rumpled his hair. "You'll miss pizza, and barbecued ribs, and flapjacks in the mornin'."

Scott grinned back at him. "I sure will. But it's not just the food I'll miss."

"Thanks, pard. But I'm not plannin' to go very far. I already started lookin' for work in Boulder Hill. But there's only two pizza places and neither one delivers. Fact is, Mr. Martin said he was thinkin' of closin' up and sellin' out, business is so bad. But I guess with your father's recommendation I can find some sort of drivin' work."

* * *

Scott excused himself to go inside. He had to tell his father about Dusty.

Dusty lay back on the grass feeling better, now that he'd gotten his worries off his chest. He figured Scott would tell his father and suited him just fine. He'd felt like an ingrate wanting to leave; but a man had to keep moving. Time enough to stop when you were six feet under.

The postman came up the walk. "Hey, Dusty, I got a letter for you," he said.

Dusty jumped up eagerly. "Must be from my mama, she's the only one knows where I am."

The mail carrier shook his head. "Not unless your mother's name is Fred," he said, handing over the envelope.

* * *

Scott found his father in a huddle with Alex and Bruce as they studied the plans for a car that would convert into a submarine. He described his conversation with Dusty.

"I warned you," Bruce said.

"Yes, well, I've been working on that," Matt said.

"Yeee-hah!" Dusty burst through the front door like a Texas twister. He caught up Scott, who was nearest, and twirled him around until his head spun.

"What's this all about!" Alex shouted.

Dusty thrust his letter at the Englishman and continued his wild dance around the room, until he came to rest perched on the back of the couch.

Bruce looked at the Texan's shining eyes with amusement. He had thought he'd seen Dusty excited before, but now he realized the young man possessed depths of exuberance as yet unplumbed.

Alex passed the letter around. It was from Fred Heineman, head of the stuntman's association and it referred to a recently completed inquiry into the events that had gotten Dusty barred from the major studios. It congratulated Dusty on being exonerated of charges of negligence and contract violation. It wished him a speedy return to Hollywood. In a personal note, Fred added he hoped he'd be working with Dusty again soon.

"That's terrific, old chap," Alex said, shaking Dusty's hand. "I'll bet you had something to do with this, Matt," he added.

"A little," Matt confessed. "All I really did, though, was start the ball rolling. That director had a lot of clout in Hollywood. He managed to keep a lid on things."

"But the mountain lion shouldn't threaten the grizzly," Bruce said.

"He means I have a little clout, too," Matt said, before anyone could say, "huh?"

"So now I suppose you'll be heading back to California," Alex said.

The broad grin vanished from Dusty's face to be replaced by something near panic.

"No! Unless … ," he turned to Matt. "Unless this's an awful polite way of sayin' you want me to get?"

Matt was surprised.

"Of course not, Dusty," he said so emphatically that the Texan couldn't doubt him. "We need you in MASK. I just thought you'd like your old job back."

Dusty relaxed. "I 'preciate it. But I can't be a stuntman and be in MASK, too. And I can do a lot more good in MASK."

"I don't understand, Dusty. You don't have to live in Boulder Hill to be in MASK. The transport jet can pick you up anywhere."

"Anywhere, Matt? Suppose I was in Borneo, or New Zealand, or Morocco. I've worked all those places on movies."

Matt thought about it. The transport was designed to pick up MASK agents and transport them anywhere in the world. But the agents really needed to be in North America for it to operate efficiently. If it had to fly to Tasmania to pick up Dusty for a mission in South America …. Matt realized the computer that selected MASK agents for each mission would just class Dusty as "currently unavailable." The cowboy would be left out a lot.

"If you don't want to be a stuntman any more, then why the blazes were you so excited about this letter," Alex said in exasperation.

Dusty looked surprised.

"But this means I've been … vindicated." He stumbled over the ten dollar word, but Alex understood. "This means everybody knows I wasn't responsible for gettin' Frank and Marcy hurt. That means a lot to me, Alex."

Alex gripped his shoulder and looked him in the eye.

"I know, lad," he said softly. "But if you don't want to be a stuntman, what do you want to do. I know you're not happy just lazing around here."

"I'll still be a stuntman," Dusty said. "There're some movie folks I owe a lot to. And some offers that're gonna be mighty hard to turn down. But I can't do it for a livin' any more. I'd like to get back to deliverin' pizzas. It might not seem like much, but people are awful glad to see you at the door. I like that."

"Yes, and you're a bloody good pizza chef, too. It would be a shame to waste such culinary talent," Alex said.

"Scott said you checked out the pizza situation in Boulder Hill and found it uninspiring," Matt mused aloud. "You realize that if you get a delivery job, you'll run into the same old problem. How is an employer going to understand if we keep calling you for MASK missions?"

Dusty looked at the blond inventor hopefully. Matt sounded as if he had an answer.

"But suppose you were your own employer," Matt said. "Suppose you buy Martin's pizza place in town. You could hire people to look after it when you disappeared. No one would question what the boss did."

"What do I buy it with, my good looks?" said Dusty who knew his credit was nonexistent.

"I'm sure I could manage to finance something," Matt said mildly.

"Blast it, Matt! I won't take charity from you. You've already done enough for me!"

"Have I." Matt's voice was very quiet, very sincere. "Dusty, you saved my life. And all I've done is make a few phone calls and offer you a dangerous, volunteer job fighting international criminals."

Matt grinned suddenly. "Don't you think my life is worth the price of a pizza restaurant? I think I'm insulted."

"Yeah," Scott said, folding his arms and glaring ferociously. "I'm insulted, too."

"Me, too," T-Bob squeaked, imitating Scott, his eyes crossing with the effort of his frown.

"Oh, I think we're all bloody well insulted," Alex put in drily.

Dusty looked at all the faces trying hard to maintain their pose of anger. One by one they broke down and burst out laughing. Finally, Dusty joined them.

"The Bible says if you cast your bread upon the waters, it will return, old chap. It doesn't say anything about throwing it away when it comes sailing back," Alex said.

"All right, Matt Trakker, I'll take your ol' money — as a loan," Dusty said firmly.

"At no interest," Matt snapped back.

"Done!"

They shook hands solemnly as their friends cheered.

* * *

Dusty's eyes gleamed as brightly as the highly polished counter in the refurbished Pronto Pizza ("We deliver") restaurant. The grand opening was set for noon and all his friends were going to be there. He could hardly wait to fire up the ovens and get to work.

The telephone rang. His first official call, Dusty thought, picking up the receiver with due ceremony.

"I'd like to order a large pepperoni pizza with double cheese," the voice said.

"Sorry, pard, we're not due to open until eleven. I haven't even turned on the oven yet," Dusty said apologetically.

"Oh," said the voice flatly.

The caller sounded so disappointed, Dusty had to laugh.

"If you feel that bad about it, I reckon I could make an exception," Dusty said, switching on the oven. "Where do you want it delivered?"

"It's out of town on the highway, the Boulder Hill gas station. The name's Buddy Hawks," the voice said eagerly.

"I know right where it is," Dusty assured him, hiding the delight he felt. He promised he'd deliver in time for lunch.

Dusty rubbed his hands together and started pounding on the dough.

So his first call was from the mysterious attendant at that mysterious gas station. That figured, Dusty thought.

It must be serendipity.

**In the next episode:  
****An "Unsound Foundation" is the key to danger, and salvation,  
****as a potential MASK agent and an innocent bystander  
****learn the earthshaking truth about Venom!**


End file.
